


an echo sharp and strange

by miraworos



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angsty Schmoop, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley and Anathema Device are Friends (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), First Kiss, Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Gabriel absolutely is a complete bastard, Happy Ending, Hastur’s not a complete bastard, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Lots of Tea, M/M, Magician Aziraphale (Good Omens), Mild Hurt/Comfort, Plant-stroking has unintended consequences, Post-Canon, Protective Crowley, Queen (Band) Lyrics, Rebel Angels, Sarcastic Crowley, Sassy Aziraphale (Good Omens), Second Armageddon, Sentient Bentley (Good Omens), Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Temporary Character Death, entirely too much plot, fluff and plot, post-armageddon't, the flaming sword, the stand-in sequel literally no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2020-11-28 16:29:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 58,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20969585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/pseuds/miraworos
Summary: After the end of the world that wasn't, Aziraphale and Crowley thought they'd have some breathing room to figure out what it means to be on their own side. Unfortunately, Heaven and Hell have other plans.





	1. Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a visitor--just not the one he was expecting.

Aziraphale examined himself in the mirror, smoothing an errant curl back into place with a practiced finger. Not that he was going anywhere special or was wearing anything differently than usual, but Crowley was on his way over for a visit, and Aziraphale wanted to look his best. That is, he didn't want to look his best _for Crowley_, of course, but for company in general. 

He felt a brief twinge, as if he'd just told a small half-truth, and he huffed at himself. Sometimes it was rather inconvenient being an embodiment of heavenly morality all the time. Even angels should be allowed to lie to themselves now and then.

With a sigh, Aziraphale abandoned the mirror for a cup of tea and the restoration he'd been working on of a 1633 edition of _Poems_ by John Donne. _So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame…_

The words could not capture Aziraphale's attention completely, though. Or perhaps the words underscored the very thoughts he kept trying to avoid. In any case, his mind returned again to the clock, half past the hour. Crowley was due a quarter of an hour since, but he was often late. It didn’t mean he wasn't coming.

Aziraphale got to his feet, pacing between shelves, pretending to dust with a feather brush Crowley had brought him once a few decades back. Lord, even the duster reminded him of Crowley.

He set the brush down and straightened his waistcoat, reprimanding himself sharply. Crowley was his friend. That was all he would ever be. They may have joined forces to shield humanity from a war that would have meant earth's end; they may have…grown attached to each other in the process; they might even sacrifice their own best interests to rescue each other occasionally. But any other feelings of-of _fondness_ that Aziraphale might feel for his companion could not possibly be reciprocated. Aziraphale may no longer have reservations that his best friend was a demon, but that didn't change the fact that Crowley _was_ a demon, and would no doubt laugh himself silly upon learning of Aziraphale's growing regard.

Aziraphale shuddered at the mere idea of Crowley knowing the true depth of Aziraphale's feelings. Better to suffer the many twinges from half-truths and white lies than to weather the heart-flaying reality of an unrequited…well, something. Or worse, Crowley pulling away from him entirely. 

Aziraphale had chosen to flout Heaven's will to the point that he'd been branded a traitor. The only friend he had left in all existence was Crowley. He couldn't risk losing him. Crowley could easily survive as a lone wolf. Aziraphale, however… 

Well, it didn't bear thinking about. Aziraphale wouldn't say a word, and he and Crowley could continue their existing friendship unimpeded. It was for the best.

Aziraphale was still trying to convince himself that sorrow was an inappropriate response to this decision when the bell above the door tinkled.

The angel marshaled his features into a smile and turned to greet his friend, coming face to face with the archangel Gabriel instead.

“What in Heaven are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked with no small amount of fear. He was supposed to have had more time. They were both supposed to have more time. 

“Just dropped in for a little chat. No need to—what is the expression—get your knickers in a twist?”

“I have nothing to say to you. You tried to burn me with demonic fire. I’m still struggling to get the sulfur stains out of my coat.”

Gabriel meandered deeper into Aziraphale’s shop, picking up books absently and setting them back down out of order, the monster. 

“I will thank you not to touch my things.”

“And I will thank you to address me with the respect befitting a divine archangel.” Gabriel did not refrain from manhandling Aziraphale’s belongings. If anything, he continued to do so, only more pointedly. “You may have slipped the traitor’s noose, but I am still your boss. Or, actually, your boss’s boss’s boss.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever. The point is, I will not tolerate any further insubordination on your part. Do you understand?”

“I hardly think—“

“Do you _understand_, Principality Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale, still miffed but not willing to cause an interdivinity incident over it—the paperwork alone would be insufferable—decided to keep his mouth shut and wait for Gabriel’s intentions to reveal themselves. 

For his part, Gabriel strode over to Aziraphale’s favorite chair and sunk down into it, filling it indifferently with his perfectly chiseled body and sanctimonious judgment. Aziraphale briefly debated miracling the chair out from under him. 

“Why?” Gabriel asked finally, his fingers steepled ostentatiously as he studied Aziraphale’s face. 

“Why what?”

“Why did you side with the _humans_, of all ridiculous things? They are chattel. They serve a purpose, but they are not _divine_.”

“They are part of the Almighty’s plan. They are...they are Her children, just as we are.”

Gabriel scoffed. “Come now, you don’t believe that. They are no more worthy of Her attention than a swarm of gnats on a summer’s day.”

Aziraphale goggled at him. How could the head of the entire Heavenly Host have gotten it all so very wrong?

“They are destined to sit at Her right hand, Gabriel. For all your disdain, you cannot rewrite the sacred texts.”

“Can’t I? Who do you think wrote them in the first place? It sure as Heaven wasn’t Paul. That cretin could barely tie his own sandals without help. Besides, even dogs get into Heaven, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale tugged at his lapels. Damned if he was going to sit still and listen to Gabriel of all people question the very fabric of God’s Plan. He’d had quite enough of this conversation, thank you very much. 

“I didn’t _side_ with them, like Armageddon is some sort of football match,” he said, lips tight with disapproval. “I followed my conscience. The way I was instructed to do. The way we were all instructed to do. Now if you don’t mind, I would rather you leave. Immediately, if you please.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow at him but didn’t move. “I am not finished yet.”

“Well, I am. Quite. So, off you go. Pip, pip.”

Aziraphale waved a hand from Gabriel toward the door, but before he finished the gesture, the Flaming Sword he’d stupidly returned to Heaven was leveled point first at his throat, holy fire scoring the blade with white-hot flame. Gabriel must have had it stashed in the same metaphysical plane that hid his wings.

“There’s no need to bring weapons into this, Gabriel. You’re being unbearably rude.”

“What, this old thing? I just brought it along as insurance in case your pet demon decided to make an appearance. Where is the little snake, by the way?”

Now that was going entirely too far. Pet demon? Really.

“My _friend_,” Aziraphale corrected through gritted teeth—might as well own it openly, now that he’d officially abandoned his duties to Heaven. “Should be here at any moment. And he won’t be happy to see _you_. I’m afraid you made a rather poor impression on him the last time you met, so you may want to be on your way before he arrives.”

Aziraphale didn’t actually know what Crowley would do if he came across Gabriel in the shop. He might just as well take off in the other direction, assuming that Aziraphale had invited the heartless archangel for tea. 

“That’s a shame,” Gabriel said, _finally_ getting to his feet, thank the Lord. He banished the Sword as he said, “I had a message for you and everything.”

“What message?”

“Oh, no. I would hate to impose upon you for a moment longer, when I am so clearly not welcome.”

“Gabriel!” Aziraphale said, raising his voice in consternation. “What is the message?”

Gabriel turned, a feral smile on his lips.

“The Almighty wants to speak to you. In person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The John Donne poem quoted is "Air and Angels."


	2. Apple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tries to rescue Aziraphale.

Crowley was late, which was exactly how he liked it. Every place worth going to deserved an epic entrance, and showing up on time was a good way to have one's efforts ruined by a lackluster crowd. Never mind that in this case, his was an audience of one.

He entered a market two blocks from the bookshop, half in mind to buy the angel flowers. But on his way to the floral section, he passed the produce bins and stopped, arrested by the pile of plump, red and green mottled apples shining bright under the fluorescent lighting overhead.

"Beautiful, eh? New in this week," said a young woman stacking onions in neat, little rows a few bins to his left.

"Where are they from?" he asked.

"Tadfield, I expect," she said. "Orchards on the west side come ripe this time of year. Like clockwork."

Crowley smirked as he chose one. Perfect.

He dropped a few coins at the register as he passed through and out the door into the aging sunlight.

As he strolled back toward the shop, unusual feelings of uncertainty and nervousness bubbled up. He tossed the apple into the air and caught it with an appearance of nonchalance he didn't in the least feel. He did it more to relieve tension than to seem devil-may-care, but paired with his natural swagger, it suggested rather the opposite. Either way, tossing and catching the apple wasn't helping. He was jumping out of his skin with anticipation and, if he were being honest, fear.

The thing was, Crowley had never expected to be free from under his and Aziraphale’s obligations to Hell and Heaven respectively. He’d been mad about Aziraphale for almost as long as he could remember, and he’d been trying to tell him without saying the words for centuries. Maybe, once or twice, he’d even managed to get through to the angel, to make his affections if not clear, then at least felt.

But it had never mattered, not really. Aziraphale was an angel, the best of his kind. He was loyal to a fault, and he would never have betrayed Heaven if Heaven hadn’t betrayed him first. But it had, and he’d chosen humanity over his calling…and maybe he’d chosen Crowley, too, at least a little bit.

Then Crowley had offered Aziraphale a place to stay for the night, and Aziraphale had accepted, throwing Crowley for more of a loop than he’d bargained for. Letting the angel into his inner sanctum had been nerve-wracking to say the least. Nearly the first thing Aziraphale had done upon entering the flat was caress the leaves of Crowley’s plants, which sent a peculiar thrill down Crowley’s spine. He’d realized that night as he lay awake, staring at his ceiling, thinking of the angel laying not ten feet away in the adjoining room, that no one would stop him now. No one was standing between him and Aziraphale. No one but himself and his greatest fear: _You go too fast for me, Crowley_.

When he'd risen the next morning, he'd been distracted by Aziraphale's plan to swap bodies and thwart their respective Head Offices. And then the whole business with getting abducted and insulted and _threatened_. Gabriel had tried to kill—in fact, would have killed—Aziraphale, if it weren't for Agnes Nutter's prophecy. Had Crowley been in his own body at the time, and not trying to protect Aziraphale with the ruse, he would have strangled the purple-eyed son of a bitch with his fucking tie.

Crowley took a breath, trying to calm himself. Fury was not perhaps the best footing for the conversation he wanted to have with the angel.

The point was, Crowley had never expected he’d be free to actually pursue this. Full disclosure had been a luxury he could ill afford. But maybe it was time for another exchange with the Tree of Knowledge. Maybe Aziraphale could be tempted—not to Fall, but to fall in love.

"You see, Aziraphale," he muttered aloud, practicing. "Our arrangement could really be seen as sort of a-a precursor to a more permanent…arrangement… No. Ugh. Awful."

He tossed the apple to his other hand and back again, absently.

"Aziraphale…Angel… It's like this. We're a team, right? Just us against Heaven and Hell. And, er, we…well, we're good at it. And I…well, I… Oh for Satan’s— Get it right, Crowley."

As he passed his beloved Bentley, parked just around the corner from Aziraphale's bookshop, he caressed its trim.

"Bugger it. Aziraphale, I love you."

Crowley stopped in his tracks, palming his face. This was going to be a complete disaster.

Through his fingers, he took another look at the apple, suddenly doubting all his decisions. Maybe the apple wasn't right. Maybe Aziraphale would look at it and see all he'd lost rather than the invitation to self-determination that Crowley meant it as. Maybe Crowley should have picked an offering less fraught with metaphysical meaning, like chocolates. Maybe he was an idiot for even attempting to change the way things were between them.

But the thought of _not_ telling Aziraphale was counter to everything that made Crowley Crowley. He fell from Heaven precisely because he valued transparency above all things. Well, not _all_ things, but very nearly. He’d always believed that truth sets one free. It had delivered him from the repression of Heaven as well as the tyranny of Hell. And now that he was liberated, he wanted nothing more than to offer himself to the one being in the universe who knew him completely and forgave him anyway.

His long fingers tightened around the apple as he gazed at it.

"Aziraphale, I am yours. Whatever that means. Whatever you want it to mean. Always."

That would do.

Then he stepped around the corner just in time to see the bastard Gabriel leaving the bookshop, a wilted Aziraphale following meekly in his wake.

Crowley froze, horrified, dropping the apple. And in the precious seconds it took him to get his vocal cords and limbs working again, Aziraphale and Gabriel had popped out of existence.

Crowley ran stumbling forward. "Aziraphale!" he shouted, startling the passers-by that had somehow missed two men disappearing right before their eyes but not Crowley's seemingly unhinged reaction to it.

"Aziraphale!" he called again, though he knew it would do no good.

He sank to his knees, his mind whirling with irrational rescue plans he discarded almost as soon as he formulated them. He couldn't get into Heaven without an invitation. No demon could. He needed help.

An idea struck him, and he pulled out his mobile.

"Crowley?" Anathema Device said on the other end, answering after the second ring.

"Aziraphale's been angel-napped. _Again_, damn it all."

"What? When?"

"Is there anything in Agnes's prophecies? Anything we missed?"

"Crowley, slow down. Who took him?"

“Don’t be daft! Heaven has him, and God knows what they're doing to him right now. Gabriel tried to kill him the last— Look, I don't have time for this! There must be something we missed."

"I-I'm sorry, Crowley. There's nothing. We fulfilled all the prophecies."

The way she said _all_ twigged at Crowley's senses. There was something she wasn't telling him.

"I'm a demon, woman," he said, his voice rough. "I can tell when you're lying."

Anathema sighed heavily. "Okay, there were other prophecies, but I never read them. I have no idea what they say. I…" She trailed off, clearly reluctant to confess to something.

"You what?" Crowley growled.

"I burned them."

Crowley closed his eyes, nearly overcome with rage. Of all the reckless, stupid, _human_ things to do…

He didn't have time to lace her cottage with termites, though. He ended the call instead, cutting off her inane apologies as he did so.

To have saved the world only to lose Aziraphale was _categorically_ unacceptable. To Hell with plans.

He raced back to the Bentley and threw himself into the driver's seat. Gunning the engine, he pulled directly into the throng of cars, blocking traffic in both directions as he accelerated through the surface streets at speeds that would normally have made even him sweat.

Too many minutes later, he drove the Bentley up onto the sidewalk, flung himself out of it, and pushed through the revolving doors into the lobby of the unassuming office building acting as the front entrance to both Heaven and Hell. Ignoring the Hell-escalator, Crowley rammed full force into the invisible barrier preventing him from accessing the Heaven-escalator.

Swearing, he picked himself up off the floor, backed up a few paces and took another go. Again, the barrier rebuffed him, this time with a shock that sent him tumbling backwards. Clothes smoking slightly, his features narrowed instinctively into serpentine shape. He hissed in pain as he rose again.

"Gabriel, you coward! Come out and face me!”

He had no illusions that Gabriel, or anyone else for that matter, would bother heeding his challenge. But he could no more control his actions than he could his panic.

He attempted the barrier several more times, looking for any weakness, any crack or crevice he could wriggle through. He hadn't even noticed he'd slipped completely into snake form until he tasted his own blood on the air.

Finally, his battered body grew weak, tired, his vision blurred. Darkness, bleak and dismal, reached its arms around his consciousness and dragged him under.


	3. Ineffable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a nice, naked chat with God.

Aziraphale, as a mere principality, had never gone beyond the Head Office's forty-seventh floor before. But as he followed Gabriel into the first available elevator, Gabriel pushed the button for 82, the highest floor in Heaven. Aziraphale swallowed hard.

"Did She happen to mention what She wanted to speak with me about?"

"The Almighty does not share Her counsel with anyone, traitor. I can only imagine that She wishes to punish you Herself."

Aziraphale swallowed harder. From a distant memory of an Ark and a flood, he heard Crowley's voice in his mind, saying, "Not kids. You can't kill kids." But She could and had killed kids. She was still the head of the Smiting Department, despite Her hermitage over the last few thousand years, and for good reason. No one smote as thoroughly or inventively or for nearly as long as the Creator—not even Death. And She was known for smiting adherents as often as apostates, Job being the primary example. For Aziraphale's part, he believed in a loving God, but he had to admit that he must be sorely testing Her divine patience at this point.

The doors to the elevator opened on a lush garden full of heady, floral scents and birdsong.

"I look forward to carrying your dismembered remains to the crematorium, Aziraphale," Gabriel said as he shoved Aziraphale out of the elevator and onto a stone path. "I hope your agony is both lengthy and excruciating.”

Then the doors slid closed again, and the elevator disappeared entirely.

Aziraphale took a shuddering breath and set out on the stone path, because what else was there to do?

As he walked, he tried hard to think like Crowley, who would have found a way out of this mess were he here. Aziraphale had always been able to count on his friend coming up with a cunning escape plan or even seeing a trap before it was sprung. What would Crowley do in this situation? How would he bargain with the Almighty? What might he tempt Her with to keep Her from punishing him? The oysters at Randall & Aubin were quite divine. Perhaps She was partial to shellfish?

Before he could settle on a plan of action, he ran out of path to follow. Interestingly, it ended in a small hollow surrounded by fruit-laden trees. The path itself led directly into a steamy hot-springs pool with a railing and stairs.

"Well," Aziraphale said, still nervous but also pleased. "Don't mind if I do."

He stripped off his clothes, laying them carefully on a mossy bench next to the path. Then, naked, he stepped into the spring, which was easily as luxurious as he imagined it would be. He closed his eyes and soaked in quietude for several long minutes. When he finally opened his eyes again, he expected to see God waiting for him to acknowledge Her Presence. But no one was there.

On impulse, he reached up and picked a plump looking date from the nearest fruit tree. He examined it thoroughly, though how he could possibly tell if it was forbidden just from its appearance was not immediately evident. So he ate it, and it was, unsurprisingly, the most delicious date he'd ever tasted.

Upon swallowing it, he heard a loud Voice booming inside his head.

AZIRAPHALE.

"Oh, my! Yes, I am Aziraphale. To whom am I speaking?"

I AM THE GREAT I AM. ALPHA AND OMEGA. THE BEGINNING AND THE END.

"Oh, yes, I see. Of course. How may I, uh, be of assistance?"

I— OH, THIS IS JUST RIDICULOUS. I AM NOT DOING THIS HOLY BOMBASTIC NONSENSE WITH YOU, AZIRAPHALE, SO YOU'RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO DEAL WITH IT.

"Er, no worries. I prefer a bit of plain speaking myself from time to time. As You were."

RIGHT. I KNOW ABOUT YOU AND THE DEMON CROWLEY.

Oh, bugger. What was he supposed to say to that? How much did She know exactly? Everything? About Aziraphale's…feelings? Oh, God, what if She’d told Crowley? Aziraphale sunk up to his nose in the spring. Perhaps it would be better for him to drown himself now and save the embarrassment.

OF COURSE, I KNOW. I AM GOD. NEED WE COVER THIS AGAIN?

Yes, it appeared drowning was his only option.

DON'T BE SILLY. I WON'T TELL HIM. FOR THE LOVE OF…WELL, ME, PUT THAT ASIDE FOR NOW. WE HAVE BIGGER PROBLEMS.

"Forgive me, Your Holiness, but how is it possible for the great Almighty to have problems? Isn't all of this part of Your—"

IF YOU SAY INEFFABLE PLAN, SO HELP ME, I WILL INSTANTLY TURN THAT HOT SPRING INTO A GLACIER.

"Of course. I wouldn't dream of it. Please, do go on."

AS I WAS SAYING, WE HAVE BIGGER PROBLEMS. SPECIFICALLY, IMMORTALITY.

"Immortality, Lord? How is immortality a problem?"

IT IS A PROBLEM WHEN IMMORTAL BEINGS CONTINUE TO GENERATE NEW IMMORTALS BUT NEVER DIE OFF THEMSELVES. THEY ARE AMASSING AN ARMY.

"Well, I mean, yes. That was always the—" Aziraphale stopped himself just before saying 'plan,' which was clearly a thorn in the Almighty's side today. It would be a shame to be turned into a popsicle after everything. "Er, the objective, the strategy for winning the war against the Hordes of Hell. They have gotten very wily over the years."

THEY ARE PLANNING TO USE THAT ARMY TO DESTROY THE WORLD.

"Again, yes. Alarming, but not terribly surprising. There is a book, You know. Revelations? It lays it all out very clearly."

THE ARCHANGELS ARE JOINING RANKS WITH THE DEMONS, AZIRAPHALE.

Oh…fuck. Crowley had been right. The final battle wasn't Armageddon. It was all the angels and all the demons against mankind. And he and Crowley had inadvertently started the alliance when they had helped prevent the intended war.

"Oh, my. Oh, no. Oh. Oh, dear. That is a problem."

DO YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN?

"I do, I really do. What can we do about it? Cannot You just tell them to stop?"

IT IS TOO LATE. THE FACTION IS TOO LARGE. THEY WILL NOT LISTEN TO ME.

"They won't listen to You?" Aziraphale said, appalled. "Surely, they would. Or if they didn't, they would Fall, becoming demons themselves."

YOU DIDN'T FALL. YOU ARE STILL AN ANGEL.

"But I-I never defied You, not really. I believe in the…well, the You Know What. I just didn't believe that _their_ understanding of it was accurate."

PERHAPS, BUT YOU BROKE THE MOLD, AZIRAPHALE. YOU IGNORED ORDERS AND MADE IT POSSIBLE FOR OTHERS TO DO SO AS WELL.

"Oh, well. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to-to…break anything."

WOULD YOU STILL HAVE CHOSEN THE PATH YOU DID HAD YOU KNOWN THE CONSEQUENCES?

"Truthfully?" Aziraphale hesitated, searching his heart. Would he have followed Crowley, plotted against Heaven to subvert the war to end all wars? There could only ever be one answer.

"Yes," he said finally. "I would still have chosen as I did."

GOOD. THEN YOU ARE THE PERSON I NEED TO END THIS CONFLICT ONCE AND FOR ALL.

"But even if the Archangels wouldn't listen to You, surely You could _make_ them stop? You are the Almighty. You are the Creator of All Beings, Great and Small. Could not You do something to avert their betrayal?

I CANNOT. I NEVER COULD. LOOK AROUND YOU, AZIRAPHALE. I AM ALL THAT YOU SEE BEFORE YOU. I AM HEAVEN. I AM HELL. I AM ALL THE METAPHYSICAL PLANES. I AM THE EARTH. I AM YOU. I AM ADAM. I AM EVERYTHING, OR RATHER, EVERYTHING IS ME. I CANNOT INTERFERE BECAUSE IT IS NOT METAPHYSICALLY POSSIBLE. I KNOW ALL, BECAUSE I AM ALL, BUT I CANNOT CHANGE ANYTHING. IF I COULD, THERE WOULD BE NO NEED OF ANGELS. AND NO SUCH THING AS FREE WILL.

"But that’s—that can't be true. What about all the smiting? What about Job? And Isaac? And Abraham, for Your sake? You changed things."

NONE OF THAT WAS MY DOING. FOR A TIME, I TRUSTED THE MALAKHIM TO GOVERN WITHOUT OVERSIGHT. IT WAS MY MISTAKE. I ASSUMED THEY UNDERSTOOD THAT AS PART OF THE WHOLE, THEY WOULD SUFFER IF THOSE THEY SERVED SUFFERED. INSTEAD, THEY BELIEVED THAT THEY WOULD SUFFER IF THOSE THEY SERVED STEPPED A TOE OUT OF LINE. I CORRECTED COURSE, BUT A LOT OF DAMAGE HAD ALREADY BEEN DONE.

“B-but…what about Your Son? You cannot tell me that You had no hand in that?”

I CAN STILL CREATE THINGS. AND CREATING CHRIST WAS MY COURSE CORRECTION. NOTICE THAT HE WAS MADE AS A MAN, NOT ANGEL, NOT DEMON. MY POINT WAS: LOOK, FOOLS, HUMANITY IS ALSO DIVINE.

IT WORKED…TO A DEGREE. CHRIST’S SACRIFICE STAVED OFF ARMAGEDDON FOR A WHILE. AND THEN YOU AND THE DEMON CROWLEY HELPED DELAY THE INEVITABLE ONCE AGAIN.

“But shouldn’t there be at least a few centuries before we have to revisit this? Forgive me, but Your Plan must have taken this into account.”

God hesitated. Aziraphale could feel the hesitation in his mind. It was as if God was _uncertain_, and nothing had ever frightened Aziraphale more in his 6000-year existence.

HAVEN’T YOU WONDERED WHY MY GREAT AND PERFECT PLAN IS INEFFABLE?

“Well, no, not really. I am hardly All-Seeing or All-Knowing. None of us are but You. Of course, any plan of Yours would be unknowable, or at least parts of it.”

BULLSHIT.

“I’m sorry? Did You just say…?”

BULLSHIT. THE PLAN IS INEFFABLE BECAUSE THERE IS NO PLAN.

Aziraphale’s brain could not compute this revelation for several disconcerting moments. It was as if She were telling him that the earth was flat when he knew perfectly well it was round.

“Th-there is no Plan?” Aziraphale repeated, hoping for clarification as to what She actually meant.

I LED THE ARCHANGELS TO BELIEVE THERE WAS A PLAN TO FURTHER LIMIT THEIR AMBITION, BUT…IT WAS NEVER TRUE. THERE WAS NEVER A GREAT AND PERFECT PLAN.

Well, that at least explained why She had threatened him with an ice bath if he mentioned it. Aziraphale wearily rubbed his face with a wet hand.

"So, to sum up: There is no Plan, You can do nothing to interfere, and yet the world is on the knife’s edge of ending again. Hence, You want me to go up against both Heaven and Hell, only this time, they are united?"

IDEALLY, IT WOULD BE YOU AND THE DEMON CROWLEY. AND WHOMEVER YOU COULD CONVINCE TO AID YOU. BUT I CANNOT PRESS ANYONE INTO SERVICE, NOT EVEN YOU. FREE WILL, YOU KNOW.

"So, you're saying that I could say no to You?"

YOU COULD. BUT IN SO DOING, YOU WOULD DOOM THE EXISTENCE OF EVERY METAPHYSICAL PLANE, INCLUDING EARTH, AS WELL AS EVERYONE AND EVERYTHING YOU HAVE EVER LOVED.

"Well, that's not much of a choice, now, is it?"

IT IS WHAT IT IS.

"I see."

Aziraphale sighed heavily, making ripples in the water. Nothing he did was ever devoid of consequences. Why was there never just one simple thing he could do without causing grave injury to the universe?

Crowley was going to kill him.

WHAT SAY YOU, PRINCIPALITY AZIRAPHALE?

Aziraphale did not answer aloud, but he didn’t need to. God heard him anyway. And the next second, he felt the pool swirling around him and a great sucking underneath him, as if he were being flushed down a toilet.

He had one last panicked thought about losing his favorite coat before he swooped down into a pillar of light and landed neatly, fully dressed in the clothes he’d left behind, on the polished floor of the office building outside the escalator entrance to Heaven.


	4. Alpha Centauri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale updates Crowley on his conversation with God. Not surprisingly, Crowley doesn't take it super well.

Crowley woke still in snake form, if his senses were anything to go by, to a gentle nudging by some moron’s shoe.

“Er, Anthony J. Crowley?” the man said, seeming both determined and insecure. “Are you Mr. Anthony J. Crowley?”

Crowley hissed as he transformed back into human shape—his face felt like a pound of hamburger left in a mosh pit after Hellfest. It was a measure of his new profound apathy about life that he didn’t care at all if seeing a great bloody snake turn into a person sent the man screaming to the journalists about it.

“What do you want?”

“I have a delivery for you. You are Anthony J. Crowley, yes?”

“Does it make a difference if I am or not?”

The man opened his mouth to say that it did, in fact, matter, but Crowley, who didn’t want to hear it, cut him off.

“Oh, never mind. I am Crowley. Give me the damn thing.”

So the man handed over an old looking trunk about the size of a bread box. He also produced a form for Crowley to sign, which Crowley did with his finger rather than a proper pen, that’s how little he could be bothered with discretion anymore.

The man, far from seeming surprised, took the form, and with a slight bow, retreated posthaste back through the revolving door and away.

Crowley pulled out a handkerchief and wiped at his bloody nose. Crusts of the stuff tugged painfully at the torn skin when Crowley scrubbed a bit too hard, but he didn’t much care. He had to be far too late to save Aziraphale by now. Upon which thought, he immediately slammed the door to further rumination on that point. He couldn’t quite let himself absorb it completely. Not yet.

So he turned his attention to the old box. He undid the buckles on the straps—_straps_, for Satan’s sake—then lifted the lid. Inside, he found a thick sheaf of parchment with the faded stains of ink letters blotting each page. On the top was a note addressed to him.

_To: Crowley, Anthony J._

_In that my descendant, Anathema Device, will undoubtedly burn her copy of the Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter Concerning the Worlde that is To Com: Ye Saga Continued, I have secured that an additional copy shall be delivered to thee on the fourth day following the end of the prior worlde. Copyright (c) 1655 by Agnes Nutter. All rights reserved._

_P.S. Look behind thee._

“Look behind thee?” Crowley muttered, irritably confused.

“Crowley, is that you?”

Crowley jumped to his feet, whirling around to confirm Aziraphale’s presence with his eyes as well as his ears.

“Aziraphale? You’re not dead?”

“Why would I be dead?” Aziraphale asked, like a complete psychopath.

“Why would you be—?” Crowley spluttered. “I saw you go off with Gabriel! I feared the worst! Have you forgotten he tried to kill— Are you trying to drive me insane?!” He took an involuntary step closer, into the light.

“I don’t— Oh, dear, your face!” Aziraphale rushed to Crowley, a bright white handkerchief already in his hand. “What happened?”

Crowley pulled back from Aziraphale’s frenzied dabbing. “Will you stop? I am trying to have an argument with you!”

“Can we not?” Aziraphale said, eyes soft with concern. “Or at least, can we have it back at the bookshop? I’ve had a devil of a day, no offense, and I could really use a cup of tea.”

“Tea,” Crowley repeated, flatly.

“Yes, tea. And it looks like you could use a spot, as well.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale, at war with himself over whether to swoop the angel up into a crushing hug, or to berate the angel into contrite oblivion for giving him such a scare.

“Tea it is,” Crowley said, teeth clenched. He snapped his fingers, and he, Aziraphale, and the box containing Agnes’s prophecies appeared suddenly in Aziraphale’s bookshop, startling the _sansevieria trifasciata_ minding its own business on the window sill.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, bustling toward the backroom to put the kettle on. “You will simply not believe the day I’ve had,” he called as he worked.

Crowley leaned against the angel’s desk, grasping the edge with tight fingers to keep himself from throwing things.

Aziraphale soon returned with two steaming mugs, which he set on their respective end tables, as well as a wet, warm, clean rag for Crowley’s face. Crowley could barely look at him but took the rag anyway without comment, pressing it to his nose to help loosen the dried blood.

“Please, have a seat,” Aziraphale said, pressing Crowley’s shoulders gently toward the chaise, his usual perch when visiting the angel. “We really must talk.”

But Crowley would have none of sitting, not yet. He stood perfectly still, glaring at Aziraphale until the angel let his hands drop.

“No,” Crowley growled at him. “Or rather, we _will_ talk, but you will listen and I will speak.”

“All right,” Aziraphale said, settling his shoulders as if bracing himself for a lecture.

“How _dare_ you go off willingly with Gabriel—or any denizen of Heaven’s—without doing everything in your considerable power to escape or at the very least,_ without telling me where you are going and with whom before you leave_?”

“Well, I am sorry for worrying you, Crowley, but we had never specified any sort of protocol, and I didn’t think—”

“Worrying me? _Worrying me_?” Crowley dropped the hand holding the rag to his nose, so that he could look Aziraphale full in the face. “I was bloody _frantic_, wasn’t I? I nearly fried all my neurons trying to break through that blasted barrier. I even called bicycle-girl.”

“The young witch? Whatever for?”

“The point is, _worry_ doesn’t even begin to cover it, angel, and I will not have it again.”

“Yes, of course, Crowley. I do apologize. I will be more mindful in future.”

“In future? Planning to throw ourselves to the wolves again soon, are we?”

“Well…in a manner of speaking.”

Crowley closed his eyes and sank onto the chaise. “Before you tell me—and you will tell me _every stitch _of it, by the way—I want you to swear to me on your honor as a principality, on your very soul, that you will never not tell me again if you are going anyplace with even a hint of danger about it.”

“I was summoned, Crowley, not kidnapped, so I didn’t think it particularly treacherous.”

“Gabriel came to collect you himself, and you didn’t consider it treacherous?”

“Well, he may have mentioned the possibility of dismemberment, but I didn’t take him seriously.”

Crowley’s heart nearly leapt out of his body. “Never again, angel. Swear to me. Never. Again.”

“All right, I swear,” Aziraphale said as he took his own accustomed chair across from Crowley. “But, really, I think you’re overreacting a bit.”

“Why do I feel that after you explain what happened, it will turn out that I was actually underreacting by a country mile?”

“I was never in any immediate danger. I was summoned to speak with the Almighty, and She—”

“You _what_?” Crowley shouted, nearly falling off the chaise. “You were summoned to _what_?”

“To speak with God, dear, do pay attention.”

Crowley nearly swallowed his own tongue in shock.

“How? What? Where?”

“Yes, exactly,” Aziraphale said. “Did you know that She has more than just apple trees in Her Garden? Apparently, dates and lemons and pecans are Her jurisdiction as well.”

“Pecans?” Crowley parroted, incredulously. Evidently, his neurons had not quite recovered from their battle with Heaven’s gate.

“Yes, but that, of course, is not the point.”

“Then what _is_ the point?”

Aziraphale leaned over and placed his hand on top of Crowley’s knee, concern melting his beautiful eyes into pools of brilliant cerulean. “I am sorry to have to tell you this, but…it turns out there is no Plan.”

“No plan.”

“No, dear, not plan—Plan. There is no Ineffable Plan.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale. Beautiful, ridiculous, courageous Aziraphale. The same Aziraphale who was staring back at him as if he had just delivered the news that he was discorporating and never coming back.

“So?” Crowley said, finally.

Aziraphale straightened, taken aback enough to withdraw his hand. “What do you mean, _so_? If the Ineffable Plan doesn’t exist, then…well, there is nothing standing between the universe and utter chaos, is there?”

Crowley couldn’t help himself. He knew Aziraphale was concerned, but he smirked at the angel anyway.

“You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale chastised. “How can you make light of this? If the Almighty isn’t guiding events, then that means we have to.”

In short order, Aziraphale relayed the play-by-play of his and God’s conversation, gesticulating the nuances. As he talked, Crowley’s smirk faded inevitably into a deep scowl.

“So, of course, I told the Almighty that I would do my best to help. And then she flushed me out of the spring and back into the lobby, luckily with my coat and clothes.”

By this point, Crowley had sunk his head into his hands.

“Isn’t it exciting, though? You were right. It’s angels and demons against humans. You called it in one.”

Crowley’s head snapped up. “Exciting? There’s another impending apocalypse pitting the entire complement of immortals against a sea of powerless humans who don’t even know immortals exist, with us right square in the middle, and you’re excited?”

“Well, I just meant it was exciting that you were right. Not…the rest of it,” he finished, lamely.

“Bloody Hell, Aziraphale. This is not what I meant about throwing yourself to the wolves.”

Aziraphale fidgeted nervously, some thought or other weighing heavily on his tongue.

“What?” Crowley said. “Just spit it out, angel.”

Aziraphale caught Crowley’s eye with his own as he stilled his hands.

“You don’t need to be right square in the middle with me,” the angel said. “I won’t hold you to my agreement with the Almighty. Indeed, She specifically said that you were in no way bound to this. Perhaps it’s best if you…” He dropped his gaze then. “…if you took that trip to Alpha Centauri after all.”

Crowley slid off the chaise to his knees, taking one of Aziraphale’s hands in both of his.

“Come with me, angel. Hang them all. We saved them once already. They can’t ask it of us again. Not again.” Crowley swallowed, his throat thick with emotion. “Come with me.” His unspoken _please_ echoed sharp and strange in the silence between them.

Aziraphale drew a beleaguered breath, expression troubled.

After a pause, he said, “I can’t, Crowley. I wish I could, but…it is not who I am.”

Crowley didn’t respond, just gripped the angel’s hand tighter.

“You are the wisest person I know,” Aziraphale continued.

The demon snorted at this outrageous statement.

“No, really. What else is wisdom but knowledge paired with choice? That is who you are.”

“Where are you going with this, angel?”

“You are wisdom. I am a principality.”

“That is just your job description. For a job, by the way, that you abandoned when you turned your back on Heaven. To be with…” Crowley couldn’t finish the sentence.

“You are both right and wrong. Yes, I no longer answer to Heaven. But being a principality is—it’s who I am.”

“That’s like saying temptation is who I am.”

“No, it’s not,” Aziraphale insisted, bending closer to Crowley. “A principality’s responsibility is to protect his people. That’s his entire raison d'être. And I don’t just choose that. It’s bound into every fiber of my being. To protect my people.” He squeezed Crowley’s hands between his.

Crowley ground his teeth, biting back his frustration. He knew Aziraphale was right. Not only right, but Right. And Crowley hated to admit it, but the whole thing just made him adore the angel that much more.

“Oh, sod Alpha Centauri anyway.” Crowley said, affecting a bored expression.“Terrible reviews on Yelp.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, like a rainbow after a flood. “I don’t know whether to try harder to convince you to go, or to toast you and gratefully accept your support.”

“How about we put a pin in it until we figure out what in Hell we’re doing next,” Crowley suggested with a sardonic eyebrow quirk.

Then he realized how closely they were sitting, practically in each other’s laps, and various parts of him were starting to take notice. Trying for casual, he slid back toward the chaise, wincing in renewed pain as he settled again. That escalator barrier was no joke.

A flash of disappointment flickered across Aziraphale’s features, causing Crowley’s heart to smart a little in the same way as hangovers do that were thoroughly worth it for having experienced the previous night’s debauchery. But it happened so quickly that Crowley couldn’t be sure it had been there in the first place. And besides, nothing had been discussed, confessed, accepted or declined, and now was hardly the time to get into all of that.

“So where do you think we should start?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley’s eyes fell onto Agnes Nutter’s box.

“Wellll…funny you should ask.”


	5. Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale decides it's time to phone a friend.

“I can't make heads or tails of any of this.”

Aziraphale set down his pen in agitation, massaging his temple with his white-gloved hand.

Crowley came in from the kitchen, bearing a fresh cup and a scone he'd miracled from St. Josef's down the street.

"But you worked out the address for the Antichrist in a trice the last time," Crowley pointed out, unhelpfully.

Aziraphale took the scone and the tea. He'd have to change his gloves now, but he needed a break anyway. He'd been reading for nearly fourteen hours straight, and there were limits to even an angel's endurance.

"This time is different. Half the words aren't even words. They're just letters scrambled. The other words make no sense in the order they're in. The diction and syntax are nothing like Agnes's previous work. It's as if someone else entirely wrote this nonsense just to scuttle us."

Crowley leaned against the desk next to where Aziraphale sat dejected in his chair. The sun streaming through the curtainless window seemed to bend around Crowley's black jacket, making the demon look threatening even in the daylight. Aziraphale wanted to touch him to see if he was warm, but he dared not give in to the temptation. Crowley didn't seem to care much for being touched, and Aziraphale didn't want to make him uncomfortable.

"Perhaps someone is just playing us for fools," Crowley admitted. "The man who brought me the box didn't seem surprised when I shifted from snake to human form. Could have been an agent of Hell, I suppose."

Aziraphale shook his head. "I would agree with you, except how would the person know to write a note telling you to look behind you? Also, I've compared the parchment to other samples from the 1600s I have on hand, and they are remarkably similar. I cannot imagine a demon, aside from you, of course, with enough patience and forethought to pull off a ruse of this complexity.”

Crowley chewed his lip, thinking, and it was the most adorable thing Aziraphale had ever seen.

"You know who we could ask," Crowley said.

Aziraphale nodded, though he was loathe to involve the humans again. "I suppose we'll have to eventually anyway. They should know what's coming."

Which is how Aziraphale found himself thirteen minutes later in the front seat of the Bentley, clutching the door handle and exhorting its driver to _please_ slow down for Heaven's sake. The plea fell on deaf ears, unfortunately for Aziraphale's poor nerves. But they arrived in Tadfield by tea time, which had to be some sort of record.

"Thank goodness," Aziraphale said, breathing a sigh of relief as they parked just outside Anathema's cottage gate. "I'm famished."

Crowley opened the trunk and lifted out the box with the prophecies tucked inside. Then he came round the side to join Aziraphale.

"She won't be expecting us," Crowley said.

"Or she will," said Anathema, getting up from a bench tucked behind a bush just inside the garden gate. She opened the gate for her visitors and gestured them in. "I am a witch, you know."

As they trooped into the cottage, Newt greeted them from the kitchen with a cheery smile.

"Oh, you made it! Excellent. Anathema said you'd be here in time for tea, but I just couldn't see how with all the traffic on the M25."

"Crowley's a demon behind the wheel," Aziraphale quipped as he produced a bottle of Château Rayas and handed it to Anathema. "Thank you for indulging us, my dear."

"I'll get us some glasses," Anathema said.

Newt, wearing an apron proudly sporting the claim KITCHEN WITCH, pulled a delicious smelling frittata from the oven and set it on a pentacle trivet in the center of the table. Five places were set with simple china, mismatching teacups, and paper napkins.

"Five places, my dear?" Aziraphale asked, nodding toward the table.

"Yes," Anathema said. "Adam should be here any min—"

"Anathema! Newt! Anybody home? Hello!" came Adam's voice from the doorway.

"We're in the kitchen, Adam!" Anathema called back. And then to Aziraphale, she finished, “—any minute."

"Oh, hey, Aziraphale, Crowley. What are you lot doing here?"

"You invited Adam?" Crowley asked. "Seems a bit heavy for a kid, don't you think?"

"I didn't invite him," Anathema said. "He just stopped by."

The boy in question was completely the same as the last time they saw him, with the exception of a small smudge of dirt next to his nose.

"Well, this explains why I felt like I should come over," Adam said, picking an olive from a small bowl in the middle of the table. He popped the olive in his mouth, then promptly took another to give to Dog.

"Everyone, sit," Anathema said, placing the last of the wine glasses. "Let's eat before we talk."

Everyone sat and ate and chatted about the weather. For some reason, Crowley brought up Tadfield's apples and how he'd heard they were ripening nicely. It was the only thing he said throughout the meal, which was strange in itself, as Crowley was usually rather extroverted at parties.

When he'd done with his plate, Crowley started drumming his fingers nervously on the tabletop. Aziraphale, nearly finished with his food as well, reached over and gathered up Crowley's fingers, sliding the demon's hand off the table and holding it in his lap as he polished off his fruit salad. Crowley stiffened a bit but, surprisingly, allowed Aziraphale to keep his hand.

After Adam had crammed the last biscuit into his mouth, he helped Newt and Crowley clear the table as Aziraphale brought out the box of Agnes's further prophecies.

Anathema took a bracing breath, but she didn't object as Aziraphale opened the box and took out the sheaf of parchment.

"I still cannot believe you burned the first batch, my dear," Aziraphale said, unable to keep the chiding note out of his voice. "Did it not occur to you that others in the world might have taken up where you left off?"

"It did occur to me, yes," Anathema admitted. "As did the follow-up thought that whoever did read the prophecies would be coming back to me for help."

"Oh," Aziraphale said, chagrined. "Well spotted, I suppose."

"It's okay," she said, waving off his discomfiture. "I am her descendant. It's my responsibility."

"Well, I appreciate your assistance. I cannot for the life of me interpret her ramblings this time."

Anathema leaned closer over the first parchment. "That's because it's in code."

"Code? Why would she bother with a code?"

"Because _someone_ burned the first copy," Crowley interjected from the other end of the kitchen.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Aziraphale asked.

"Burned things often end up in Hell, don't they?" Crowley pointed out. "Agnes was afraid the prophecies would be compromised."

"Oh, shoot," Anathema said, looking contrite herself now. "I had no idea."

"Well," said Aziraphale, brightly, trying to lighten the mood. "That puts a fun little wrinkle in our game, doesn't it?"

"A fun little wrinkle?" Crowley said, dourly.

"Well, I love a code," Adam said. "Let me see it."

"This first one is easy," Anathema said. "She developed a simple code early on for family communications so that witch hunters never found proof of our witchy ways. She didn't bother with the prophecies, because she had a foolproof hiding place obscured by magic. But everyday, run-of-the-mill stuff—healing potions, bindings, clearings, managing accounts, that sort of thing—they'd use the code to protect themselves and the people they served."

"And you know this code?"

"Of course. I learned it when I learned the alphabet. It's a simple letter transposition. That's why none of the words look like words. Easily crackable by today's standards, but back in the 1600s, people thought they'd been be-spelled when they tried to read it.” She handed the top page to Adam. "Here you go, kid. Why don't you have a go at it?"

"Why do you say the first one is easy? Is there more than one?"

Anathema picked up the second page and pointed to some of the phrasing.

"These words are whole—no transpositions. But the words themselves make no sense in this order, which likely indicates she’s using a second code."

Crowley groaned dramatically. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

Anathema shot him a quelling look. "There could be multiple codes, for all I know. My family only ever knew about the one. I can call my mom, and see if she knows anything about other codes, but I wouldn't bet on it."

"Brilliant," Crowley said as he turned away from the conversation, taking out his mobile.

"Yes, please, do call your mother," Aziraphale said to Anathema. "But first, maybe if we just look at the second prophecy, something will spark your memory?"

Anathema looked doubtful, but she complied.

Eventually, Adam broke the code for the first prophecy, and Anathema dutifully read it out to the room. Unfortunately, it was not much more than they already knew—that the remainder of the prophecies were written in code to protect the knowledge from falling into Hell's hands due to an unfortunate incident involving burning of said prophecies. The rest was an enjoinder to them not to burn the second copy as it was the last, and a personal note to Anathema regarding her greatest periods of fertility for the remaining year, which caused Newt to blush adorably.

"So it says nothing about how to crack the rest of the code?" Crowley said.

"Nothing," Anathema said. "How did you guys get these, anyway?"

"Some bloke delivered them to me at the Head-Office lobby," Crowley said, arms crossed in his usual I-hate-everything manner.

"Delivered them to you specifically?" Anathema asked, surprised.

"Yes, me. Specifically. Wrote a note to me and everything."

Anathema blinked. "What did it say?"

"Nothing about any code," Crowley said. "Told me to look behind me."

"Look behind you?"

"It was a reference to something happening at the time. It's irrelevant."

Anathema looked thoughtful. "I wouldn't be so sure. Did it say anything else?"

"Just that you had burned the original, so she was having a copy delivered to me on the fourth day after the end of the world. And then some copyright mumbo jumbo.”

"Copyright?"

"Never mind. I'm sure it's not related."

"But still," Anathema said. "She sent it to you. That feels…significant."

"Well, she wouldn't have sent it to you again, would she?" Crowley insisted. "So why not me?"

"Because it was Aziraphale who found the book after I left it in your car, Aziraphale who read it, Aziraphale who interpreted the prophecies correctly, Aziraphale who put it all together. Why would she send them to _you_ and not Aziraphale?"

"Oh. I suppose you have a point, dear," Aziraphale said.

"Not at all," Crowley said. "You were indisposed at the time. Talking to You Know Who about You Know What."

"She could have given it another five minutes, and I'd have been there."

"Wait, go back," Newt broke in. "Who was the Who and what was the What?"

Aziraphale shared a meaningful look with Crowley. Should they tell them, or keep it secret? Involve them, or protect them?

"It's happening again, isn't it?" Adam said, making the decision for them. "Armageddon. It's coming again."


	6. Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bicycle-girl tries to meddle, and Crowley turns down a drink.

Crowley leaned a hip against the counter, drying a dish absently with a dampish towel. He set it down as bicycle-girl handed him another.

“He cooks, I clean,” Anathema said, utterly ruining the broody silence Crowley had been enjoying. “He’s actually pretty good with cooking. Way better than with computers.”

“Mmm,” Crowley said, as if he was listening when he really wasn’t.

His ears were fixed keenly on the angel who was chatting with the witchfinder around the other side of the kitchen table. Crowley could just barely make out a word or two over the running water and Adam teaching Dog a new trick. Aziraphale seemed also to be intentionally keeping his voice low, which made it even more difficult to hear. The only words Crowley managed to catch were “Anathema” and “prophecies,” but whatever Aziraphale was saying seemed to leave the witchfinder green about the gills.

“You haven’t told him, yet, have you?” Anathema said out of nowhere.

Crowley looked round to see who she was talking to. But finding no one else in their general vicinity, he concluded she was speaking to him. Had he missed something?

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

“Him. I’m not going to say his name, because I don’t want to attract his attention.”

“I honestly don’t know what you’re on about.”

“You haven’t told him about your feelings for him.”

The bottom fell out of Crowley’s stomach. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“There’s naught to tell. And anyway it’s none of your concern.”

“Oh, Crowley,” she said with feigned sympathy. “My family has been recklessly interfering in people’s lives for generations. It’s what we do.”

“Regardless, where did you get the idea that I— that he— You’re completely wrong.”

“Please,” she said, handing him another dish, which he took just to keep up appearances. “I don’t need supernatural powers to see how you two look at each other. Your mutual pining would be adorable, if it hadn’t already been _six thousand years_.”

Crowley made a few noises of protest but could not seem to properly form them into words.

Anathema rolled her eyes at him. “Look, I wouldn’t bring it up, but you both barely survived the last apocalypse, and another one is almost upon us. You need to say something. To. Him. You never know if…”

Crowley growled at her, daring her to say it.

“If what?” he said quietly, teeth clenched.

She looked at him with actual sincerity this time.

“If telling him might actually save you both.”

Crowley snorted in response and left the kitchen entirely, dropping his towel on the far counter on his way out to make it harder for her to reach it.

He went into the garden. The moon had risen, a full circle mirroring the light of the sun. That’s how he felt sometimes. Like he was a mirror with no light of his own. Maybe that’s why he tried so hard to keep the world alive. He didn’t want to reflect the grace of Heaven in all its cold indifference. He craved an ardent light.

“Crowley? Are you all right?”

Aziraphale came to stand next to him, eyes soft with concern. The angel could always tell when Crowley felt off. It was some kind of celestial magic, no doubt, and it irritated Crowley no end when it cropped up at times he wasn’t ready for it.

“Peachy,” Crowley said with his typical sarcasm.

“Oh. Well, shall we go, then? Adam wrote out the key to the transposition code for me, so I think I can manage that part on my own.”

“Yes, for Hell’s sake, let’s get on with it.”

“All right. I’ll just pop back in to say our goodbyes.”

Crowley didn’t argue, though he’d never realistically engage in such niceties himself, so Aziraphale saying farewell on his behalf could hardly be taken literally. It was more the “our goodbyes” that Crowley wanted to leave whole. “Our goodbyes” meant that Aziraphale really did see the two of them as a pair, and Crowley would sooner gnaw off his own arm than damage that.

The drive back to London was uncharacteristically quiet. Aziraphale must have picked up on Crowley’s singularly moody mood, and was either offended by it or gracious enough to give Crowley some space. Regardless, the angel would shoot him worried looks from time to time without comment. It was all really very tiresome…all right, and sweet. But tiresome, obviously.

Just before they hit London proper, Aziraphale broke the strained silence.

“So I’ll get to work on transcribing the prophecies, at least the parts that can be transcribed. I don’t know what to do about the secondary code, though. Any thoughts?”

“Not really. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I was just thinking—”

“Oh, Lord.”

“I was just thinking about what Anathema said. About Agnes sending them to you. Maybe you’re the key to decoding the rest?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Crowley said. “I don’t know a thing about encryption. Besides, I looked at the parchment when I opened the box, and nothing looked out of the ordinary.”

“What do you mean, nothing looked out of the ordinary? None of it makes any sense.”

“Well, I mean, obviously that. It all looked like red gobbledygook to me.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Did you say ‘red’ gobbledygook?”

“Yes, red. Why? What does that have to do—”

“Oh, nothing. Maybe nothing. I need to do some research.”

At which point, the angel fell back into blissful silence and staring out the window. But Crowley’s sour mood had abated somewhat, and now he found he missed their usual banter. He spent the rest of the drive mulling over Anathema’s words. Was she right? Had her words been a prophecy or just a meddling opinion?

When Crowley pulled the Bentley up to Aziraphale’s front door, the angel paused before getting out.

“Would you like to come in?” he asked, despite the lateness of the hour. “For a nightcap?”

Crowley wanted to. Desperately wanted to. But part of him also wanted to run far, far away. What tipped him over the edge toward refusal was his own need to do some research.

“Better not, angel. Not tonight.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, his expression just the tiniest bit hurt. “Of course, I understand. Another time, then.”

But as Aziraphale got out, a thought occurred to Crowley, and he got out as well.

“Wait a minute,” he said. Then he preceded the angel into the bookshop, checking each row of shelves, the back room, and the upstairs flat for anything threatening. But none of his senses, demon or otherwise, detected danger.

“All clear,” he said to Aziraphale when he returned to the front room. “Remember. Do—not—go—anywhere—with Gabriel or any other ethereal being. Not without first checking in with me.”

“Understood, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, fighting a small smile.

“What?” Crowley demanded.

“Nothing. It’s just…you care about me.” The smile won.

“Well,” Crowley said, caught flat-footed without a good comeback. “Obviously,” he finished with a huff.

Then he let himself out without another word. Honestly. It was hardly worth all this fuss, was it? Love. Such a pain in the ass, really.

He slammed the door of the Bentley and floored the accelerator as usual, pulling out into traffic that was flowing in the opposite of direction of his flat.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into a weedy parking lot behind a seedy pub in an outlying borough Crowley rarely set foot in. He opened the pub door and went in.

Taking a bar stool, Crowley signaled to the dumpy bartender that he wanted a scotch. It would taste like bog water in a place like this, but alcohol was alcohol. He allowed himself a moment of wistfulness over the far superior drink he could have been having with Aziraphale instead, but only a moment. There was work to be done.

“You are, without a doubt, the most fucking obnoxious blighter I have ever known,” Hastur said from the stool next to Crowley’s.

“I’ll take that as a profound compliment, Hastur, thank you.”

“I hate you.”

“I hate you, too, buddy.” Crowley raised his glass to his fellow demon. “Cheers.” Then he downed it in one. “Satan’s hairy armpit, that’s awful.”

“What do you want, Crowley?”

“To disembowel you and pour in a gallon of holy water to replace your entrails,” Crowley answered honestly. “But we don’t all get what we want.”

Hastur made to leave, but Crowley clapped the other demon’s arm to the bar, forcing him to stay.

“I know you lot are planning something with Heaven. An attack. I want details.”

“And what? You think I’m just going to give ‘em to you, then? Not bloody likely.”

“What if I told you I had secret intel that Heaven was planning to double-cross you?”

“You don’t even. No one in Heaven would talk to you.”

“No? Aziraphale talks to me. He told me everything.”

A flicker of doubt flashed through Hastur’s expression. “Heaven wouldn’t talk to him, either.”

“Really? Then why did he leave to go to the Head Office with Gabriel this morning?”

“What?”

“Gabriel came to collect Aziraphale himself. And then Aziraphale returned unharmed. Don’t you think that’s odd, given everything?”

“You’re lying.”

“I do that from time to time. But feel free to check with Gabriel, or whichever minion he lets you deal with, the next time you see them.”

Hastur’s eyes narrowed. “Even if you’re telling the truth, why should I tell you anything?”

“Because I can give Aziraphale misinformation to trap Heaven into revealing its true agenda.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because all I want is to stop the world from being destroyed. And right now, that means torching this alliance between Heaven and Hell. Which means, for once, we find ourselves, temporarily at least, on the same side.”

“Who said I’m against the alliance with Heaven?”

“Well, aren’t you? The prosaic, sanctimonious assholes that always thought they were better than us? They still think that, don’t they? Nothing’s really changed. They still look down on demons. What do you think’s going to happen after you team up and manage to destroy the world?”

“They said they’d let us rule the remains.”

“You really think that’s true? Or did they give each other significant looks when they said it?”

Hastur fell silent for a moment, what passed for his thoughts turned introspective. “Now that you mention it, Michael and Sandalphon did have a dodgy look about them.”

“Exactly.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not betraying Hell by telling you a damned thing.”

“Hastur, Hastur, Hastur…I don’t want you to betray Hell. I just want a little hint. That’s all. Whatever you feel comfortable telling me. Even the smallest thing could help me help you throw Heaven off its high horse.”

Hastur tugged his arm away. “I’ll investigate your claim, Crowley. If you’re right about Aziraphale, if I’m not satisfied they’re on the up and up, then…I’ll be in touch.”

And with that, Hastur popped out of the pub, leaving the stench of rotten cabbage behind him.

Crowley settled back onto his stool with a slump, signalling to the bartender for another round. Might as well get ragingly drunk while he was here. It was the end of the world, after all. And he, a demon, was desperately, forlornly, irredeemably in love with an angel. _So_ in love, that he would pit himself for a _second time_ against all of immortality to save him. It would almost be poetic, if it weren’t so utterly stupid.

Hours passed and Crowley was almost, not quite…okay, nowhere near successful in forgetting about Aziraphale. Not even for one single…bloody…merciful…second.


	7. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale makes a mistake. Crowley comes to to the rescue.

Aziraphale spent the first couple of hours after Crowley left alternately transposing scrambled words from the prophecies and fretting over the demon’s reticence. Crowley had always been a moody sort, but the entire trip home from Tadfield had been particularly strained.

_A light reign_

It could very well be the disappointment of having to confront the combined forces of Heaven and Hell so soon after having won the battle of Armageddon.

_Scars from Heaven_

But no matter how worried Crowley was, he always had a joke to make light of a situation. And for him to refuse a drink was not at all like him.

_Tongue of Flame_

Aziraphale set down his pen, rubbing his eyes. He needed tea. And to switch to a different task altogether. He made himself a cup of steaming earl gray and sipped it as he wandered the shelves, looking for his Crowley section.

It was rather a small collection, tucked away between medieval romance literature and the Shakespearean comedies and consisting almost entirely of crumbling scrolls from Mesopotamia referencing a snake-man that occasionally left sweets for children. Numerous tomes existed, of course, referencing and speculating on the origin and philosophical implications behind Eden’s serpent. Aziraphale never bothered with those, since, by and large, they flirted only passingly with the truth of what actually happened, and anyway Aziraphale had been there and witnessed it all firsthand.

Rather, over the years, he’d been far more interested in finding any scraps he could on Crowley’s deeds since the temptation in the Garden, specifically accounts that gave glimpses into how the demon’s mind worked—exclusively for purposes of discovering how to thwart him, of course. _Twinge_.

Luckily, for Aziraphale’s current intent, he’d also come across and squirreled away a few oblique references to how Crowley’s powers worked. He’d found just such an account, in fact, in a particularly well researched manuscript nearly a hundred years or so ago. He’d read it briefly but hadn’t studied it, since he couldn’t confirm its authenticity and thought it too delicate a topic to broach with Crowley, as they’d been in a tiff at the time. So he’d shelved the account and promptly forgotten about it.

He pulled out the thin volume now and blew off the fine layer of dust, skipping through the diagrams and sections describing other lesser demons until he found what he was looking for.

The chapter on Crowley, or rather the Serpent Demon of Dur-Kurigalzu, was not terribly long or in-depth, and sadly, it didn’t say much beyond what Aziraphale had already observed himself. However, there was an interesting bit about Crowley’s vision that Aziraphale vaguely recalled skimming, and he was hoping it might shed some light on the peculiarity that Crowley had mentioned earlier—that he’d seen the writing as _red_ rather than blueish-black, which was how it appeared to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale took the book back to his desk to read it under the light of the lamp. It was only a minute more until he found what he was looking for.

_Insomuch as its eye doth fall upon an object, its senses doth prove a further advantage, for in heat, a secret message lay that none else on this plane can decipher._

Aziraphale shut the book and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The second code wasn’t a code at all. It was a demon.

Aziraphale picked up the telephone receiver and dialed Crowley’s number.

_You know what to do. Do it with style._

"Blast," Aziraphale muttered as he hung up the receiver. He’d not bothered leaving a recording, as he'd learned from the last apocalypse that saying anything of value on Crowley’s machine was asking for trouble.

Well, there was nothing for it. He needed Crowley, and Crowley was just going to have to let him in, reticence or not. So he packed up the prophecies in a briefcase, along with the code key Adam had drawn out and the book on demon physiology that explained Crowley’s connection to it all, and left the shop to hail a cab. He would wait on Crowley’s front stoop, if necessary, until the demon came to his senses.

A moderate amount of time later, the cabbie dropped the angel off just outside Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale miracled some money to pay the man, though after riding so often with Crowley of late, the ride had seemed rather sluggish.

Aziraphale rang the bell, but there was no answer, as he’d expected, so he settled onto a bench just to the left of the front door to wait. He was normally very good at waiting, patience being a virtue, but the anxiety he felt about his friend’s mental state as well as the impending second end of the world made it extremely difficult to sit still.

Aziraphale was just checking his watch as the first fingers of light touched the rooftops around him when he heard footsteps approach. He looked up to see Gabriel, Uriel, Sandalphone, and Michael advancing upon him.

He jumped to his feet, suddenly afraid, not for himself but for the prophecies in the briefcase he clutched to his chest.

“Hello, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, flaming sword again in his grip. “Funny story. When I took the elevator back up to collect your remains, they weren’t there. Imagine my surprise to find you still relatively corporeal and back to your insubordinate ways.”

“Gabriel, Uriel, Michael…and Sandalphone. What a pleasure to see y—”

“Save it, traitor,” Uriel said, closing in. “We don’t know what you said to the Almighty to get a reprieve, but there’s no proclamation protecting you from brigands.”

“Sorry—brigands?” Aziraphale asked, confused.

“You know,” Gabriel answered. “Cut purses, pilferers, plunderers.”

“You mean, muggers?” Aziraphale supplied.

“That’s it. Muggers,” Gabriel said, brandishing the sword. “Prepare to be despoiled.”

“Now, hold on a moment,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t believe that this is terribly angelic be—”

Just beyond his peripheral vision, Sandalphone cocked his fist and punched Aziraphale straight in the face, causing Aziraphale to nearly drop the briefcase.

“Ow,” he pouted, rubbing his cheek with his free hand. “That was completely uncalled for.”

“What’s in the bag, traitor?” Gabriel asked.

“I’ll have you know, this is a vintage Buccio Veneto. Not a _bag_.”

“What’s in the _bag_, Aziraphale?” Gabriel insisted.

“Books, obviously,” he said. And then because he couldn’t help himself, he added, “_Pornography_, if you must know.”

Gabriel heaved a loud sigh. “Why is everything out of your mouth a lie? Do you have any good left in you at all?”

“I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale said, offended. “I have twice as much good in my little finger as you do in your whole…being.”

“Is that so?” Gabriel said, leaning the sword against his shoulder as he drew nose to nose with Aziraphale. “Then, follow my orders and give me the bag.”

Aziraphale straightened, tightening his grip on the handle. He couldn’t let them have the prophecies. Better to destroy them then let Heaven have them.

He tried to miracle the briefcase away, but some kind of buzzing interrupted his order, like an electrical fuse interrupting a current. Gabriel must have countermanded Aziraphale’s miracle.

“Oh, now, I really want that bag,” Gabriel said. “Hand it over, and we won’t beat the pulp out of you.”

“I believe the phrase is, ‘beat you to a pulp,’ sir,” Sandalphone corrected.

“Whatever. Give me the briefcase, Aziraphale.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, stealing himself for a fight.

“You can’t say no to _me, _demon lover.”

“Step back at once,” Aziraphale said. “Or I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

“I _will_ have that case, and your head with it,” Gabriel said. “Give me the case, and I’ll make it a quick death. Don’t give me the case, and we’ll take the scenic route.”

“How _dare_ you? I am acting on orders from the Almighty Herself,” Aziraphale said, hoping to stall a little longer.

“You expect me to believe that She would assign _you_, a screw-up principality, nearly fallen, with no reverence or regard for tradition, no loyalty or even basic intelligence, some sort of mission? After you so badly botched your last one? I don’t think so.”

“None of what you just said is true,” Aziraphale said, smarting at the insults anyway. Longing for Heaven's approval was a habit that died hard.

“Everything I say is true, because I say it,” Gabriel said. “You are a mistake, Aziraphale. An aberration. A scar from Heaven’s war. A stain on Heaven’s honor. You made your choice, imbecilic as it was. You sided with a _demon_, who will never, ever vindicate your faith in—”

“You’re wrong,” Aziraphale said, his voice shaking with indignation. “He has already shown me more friendship and fidelity than you ever have.”

“It’s not my job to be loyal to a principality. It’s your job to be loyal to me.”

“I am not giving you one single thing ever again,” Aziraphale insisted, trembling with anger and close to tears.

“Scenic route it is,” Gabriel said, lifting the sword.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, waiting for the blow to fall, which is how he missed the sight of the Bentley careening around the corner and scattering the archangels from their positions. Aziraphale certainly _heard_ the Bentley, though, its engine growling like a dragon roaring defiance over its hoarded treasure. His eyes popped open just in time to see Crowley slam his way out of the car, darkness billowing around him like a cloud, and a ball of flame engulfing each fist.

“Looks like I’m missing the party,” he said, his sunglasses-tinted stare never leaving Gabriel.

“Great timing,” Gabriel said, twirling the sword in his grip, preparing to brandish it again. “Two birds. One strike.”

“You mean ‘stone,’ sir,” said Uriel.

“Shut up, and get me that briefcase!”

Aziraphale ducked to the side, just as Uriel dove for the case. They collided and fell into a heap, Aziraphale hitting his hip on the bench’s seat as he went down. The fall knocked the breath out of him. Uriel grabbed the case’s handle, but Aziraphale held tight, rapidly firing protective miracles at the case to keep Uriel from spiriting it away.

Aziraphale lost track of Crowley in his scramble to protect the prophecies, though the demon must have been doing something useful, as neither Michael nor Gabriel entered the fray for the case. Unfortunately, Aziraphale had also lost track of Sandalphone. And while he was tussling with Uriel, Sandalphone reached in, grabbed a corner of the case and promptly vanished, case in hand.

“No!” Aziraphale yelled from the ground, reaching out instinctively.

Once the case was gone, Uriel quickly clambered up to standing and backed away.

“We have it, boss.”

Gabriel, disheveled, his suit scorched and smoking, retreated from a still snarling Crowley.

“Let’s go,” he said. Then sneering down at Aziraphale, he said, “You won’t win this time, muckraker.”

“Uh, sir?” Uriel said. “Muckraker means—”

“I don’t fucking care! Let’s go.”

Aziraphale turned his face to the concrete in dejection as he felt them leave. He’d lost the prophecies. He’d been so profoundly stupid to take them out of the bookshop. He should have hidden them and fetched Crowley back to the shop with him. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Why hadn’t he considered the risk he was taking?

“Come on, angel,” Crowley said, extending a non-enflamed hand. “Up.”

Aziraphale sighed and wiped his eyes as he accepted Crowley’s assistance. Crowley transferred his grip to Aziraphale’s elbow, as he steered the angel through the door and into his flat.

Aziraphale collapsed onto Crowley’s sofa, continuing his silent litany of self-recrimination as he absently stroked the plant on the end table next to him.

Crowley returned with a cup of tea for Aziraphale.

When Crowley saw Aziraphale, he shuddered briefly, and said, “Stop doing that, angel.”

“Stop doing what?”

“The plant. Leave it alone.”

“Oh. Why?”

“It’ll grow soft if you keep coddling it like that.”

“It’s a plant, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, taking the cup from the demon. “It’s supposed to be soft.”

“Not my plants,” Crowley grumbled.

Aziraphale gave the plant an apologetic look and dropped the subject. “I lost the prophecies,” he said, hating himself. “I lost the last copy of the prophecies _to Heaven_.”

“Which means—”

“Both Heaven and Hell now have copies.”

“And we don’t.”

“We are so fucked,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley snickered.

“What’s so funny?” Aziraphale said.

“You said ‘fuck,’” Crowley said, his amusement level graduating to laughter as he sank onto the couch next to Aziraphale.

“I don’t see how it’s _that_ amusing,” Aziraphale groused, though he couldn’t help but succumb a little to Crowley’s infectious laughter. He gave in to a light giggle himself for half a minute before clearing his throat and bringing the topic back around to the matter at hand.

“Seriously, Crowley, what are we going to do? Agnes told us not to lose that copy, and I lost it.”

Crowley, now lying flat out on the couch with his head just shy of Aziraphale's knee, sobered and looked up to the ceiling.

“I don’t know, angel. Last time we were in this boat, Adam just wished it all away. Maybe he could again?”

“I very much doubt that. If Satan was never his father, then he never had magic powers, did he?”

“I don’t think it’s that simple.”

“Regardless, we don’t know, because we never read the prophecies.”

Crowley fell silent for a few moments, one of his hands playing absently with a twist of his hair and brushing against Aziraphale’s thigh in the process. The sensation drove Aziraphale to distraction.

“At least, they won’t have any more luck deciphering them than we did,” Crowley said finally.

"True enough," Aziraphale said, a flicker of hope reigniting. He set his teacup on the table next to the plant. "Actually, that's why I was waiting for you, you know. I figured out the second code. Or rather, it's not a code at all."

"What do you mean?"

"It's why Agnes Nutter sent the prophecies to you instead of anyone else. It's really quite clever, when you think about it."

"Angel, stop gabbling and out with it.”

"It's your eyes, Crowley. Serpent eyes can see heat as well as substance."

“What has that to do with anything?”

"When you said the letters appeared red, I realized something was off—or rather, on—about the way you saw the prophetic writing. So I read up on it, and according to an ancient text on demonology I procured some years ago, you can see _heat_. Agnes must have spelled the parchment to add heat markings like invisible ink."

"Wait, wait. Go back to the part where you have a book. About me."

"Oh, I have a whole section about you, of course, I do. But that's not the point."

"It isn't?"

"No, the point is that you are the only one who can read the prophecies. And as soon as Heaven figures that out...“

"They'll be coming for me."


	8. Avoidance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale offers several ideas over pastries that Crowley doesn't like. At all.

Upon finishing his tea, Aziraphale declared himself peckish and badgered Crowley out of the flat and into the Bentley to drive him to his favorite French bakery. Crowley, for his part, wasn't hungry in the slightest. Impossible Gordian knots with the fate of the world resting on their undoing did not, as a general rule, provoke his appetite. But far be it from him to stand between Aziraphale and baked goods. Besides, staying at his flat and waiting to be snapped up by Heaven's henchmen didn't exactly sound like a better plan.

"You know, it's very possible that Gabriel will just destroy the prophecies," Aziraphale said, over a chocolate hazelnut croissant. "He didn't know the significance of the original prophecies, and the new ones are so muddled that he might just overlook them entirely."

"Do you think that's likely, though?"

“We shouldn’t bet on it. But he didn't even want them until I wouldn't give them to him."

"Then why was the Moron Squad there in the first place?"

“Gabriel still sees me as some sort of threat, given what happened the last time he wanted to end the world. And when the Almighty didn’t smite me at our meeting, he decided to take matters into his own hands, I suppose.”

Crowley hooked an arm over the back of his chair, though he felt the opposite of relaxed. "I'm going to have to kill him, aren't I?"

Aziraphale sighed. "I certainly hope not. Whether I like him or not, he is still…sort of…my family."

A look of sadness coursed across Aziraphale's features, which he attempted to obscure by taking another bite of his croissant.

"What did he say to you?"

"What makes you think he said anything of significance?"

"It's written all over your face, angel."

Aziraphale gave Crowley a long-suffering look. "It's of no moment, dear. I know how ill-informed he is."

Crowley crossed his arms and cocked an eyebrow, waiting.

Aziraphale sighed and set down his napkin. "He said I was an aberration, a stain on Heaven's honor. He also called my Buccio Veneto a _bag_. Imagine."

Crowley cocked his eyebrow higher, still waiting. There was more to it, he was sure.

Aziraphale looked down at the table, clearing his throat. "He also said I'd made a mistake in…choosing you over them. He insinuated…"

"What?"

"That you would abandon me."

"And did you believe him?"

"Of course, not," Aziraphale said, fire in his eyes. "I told him you'd already been a better friend to me than Heaven had ever been."

Crowley warmed at that. _That’s right, angel. And don’t you forget it. _And yet…

"Then why the face?

“What face?”

“The pained face you just made. It hurt you to hear him say it. Why?”

Aziraphale hesitated. "I don't know."

"You don't know, or you can't say?"

Aziraphale didn't answer, just looked out the window uncomfortably.

Anathema's words came back to haunt Crowley then…_telling him may save you both_…and despite thousands of years of conditioning screeching at him that Aziraphale would run away the second Crowley pushed, he thought, _now—now is the time to tell him_.

"Angel, I—“

"Don't, please, my dear. Don't say it. Not today."

“But you don't even know what I’m—”

"I do, though. I do know. And I just can't bear it right now. Is that all right? Just wait a little while to tell me. Just until I'm feeling more resilient.”

"All right," Crowley said, puzzled. He wasn't sure why Aziraphale needed to feel more resilient to hear Crowley's confession, but Crowley had already waited six thousand years. What were a few centuries more? Assuming they had centuries.

"Thank you, Crowley. I appreciate it."

Crowley blew out a breath to fill the suddenly awkward silence.

“I had a thought—” Aziraphale said, just as Crowley said, “Well, nevertheless, we should—”

“I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale jumped in. “After you.”

“I was just going to say that bad things seem to happen any time we’re separated, so we should stick together from now on.”

Crowley waited expectantly for Aziraphale’s inevitable refusal to listen to reason. He always dug in his heels the first time, then came round eventually.

“I agree,” Aziraphale said. “We’re much stronger as a united front.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said I agree.”

“You agree?”

“Yes.”

Crowley adjusted his glasses and looked around the bakery. “With me?”

“Oh, stop. I agree with you all the time.”

“No, you don’t. You always argue with me.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Like now, you mean? When we’re arguing over the fact that we’re not arguing?”

Crowley threw him a peevish look. “All right, fine. We’re not arguing anymore. Are you happy?”

“Much,” Aziraphale said, beaming at him as if Crowley had just given him chocolates.

Crowley rolled his eyes, though he doubted the angel could see it behind his glasses.

“You had a thought?” Crowley prompted.

“What?”

“You mentioned earlier…”

“Oh, yes. I had a thought about how to stop the second Armageddon from destroying the earth.”

“Oh, really? How’s that?”

“We destroy the earth first.”

“Come again?”

“God did it once already, remember? The great flood?”

Crowley narrowed his eyes, trying in vain to figure out where the angel was going with this. “Of course, I remember. But I fail to see how drowning everything will preserve your favorite dry cleaner.”

“Ah, Dave,” Aziraphale said fondly, causing a short-lived, small, but still irrational spike of jealousy in Crowley. “No, obviously, drowning everything is not the answer.”

“Then…?” Crowley was starting to lose his patience with this entire conversation.

“Well, there are an infinite number of metaphysical planes, you see. The angels and demons couldn’t possibly have mapped out all of them. We could cause a distraction, then shift this world to a new metaphysical plane, and then drown an empty rock in place of the planet. Heaven would never notice the difference.”

Then he smiled radiantly, like he’d just made the most brilliant suggestion anyone had ever thought of in the history of the world.

Crowley shook his head in wonder. “That is literally the worst bloody idea I have ever heard, Aziraphale.”

The angel glared at Crowley. “It’s not the _worst_ idea. It could work.”

“You want to fake the death of an entire planet.”

“I mean, essentially.”

“And you think no one will notice.”

“Not if we distract them.”

“Distract them _how_?”

“Well, I haven’t worked that bit out, yet, but I thought maybe you could help come up with something.”

“You thought I could summon up a way to distract all of Heaven, Hell, and Humanity from noticing the entire planet shifting to an alternate dimension?”

“Well—“

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or really, really concerned about your powers of observation.”

“Look—“

“And how were you even going to move an entire bloody planet to said alternate dimension? Were you just going to snap your fingers, a little light miracle like changing your clothes?”

“Well, it’s better than giving up entirely, Crowley. I don’t hear you coming up with any better ideas.”

“My idea is to hang it all and go to Alpha Centauri, and that offer still stands, by the way.”

“Oh, really. And what would we do in Alpha Centauri? We’d be discorporated. We’d be flying around in spirit form for the rest of eternity, bickering over whether or not the Velvet Whats-their-names could accurately be described as bebop.”

“It’s a damn sight better than dying, angel.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips into a disapproving line.

“Look, I want to help them, I do,” Crowley admitted. “But we have nothing to go on.”

“Well, then, I have another idea.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“Let’s go steal the prophecies back.”

“Absolutely not. I’m not letting you go back in there to face Heaven knows what.”

“I’m not talking about Heaven’s copy,” Aziraphale said quietly.

Crowley slumped in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Oh, God.”

“I’m afraid God’s got little to do with it, dear.”


	9. Demonology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stuff happens. Aziraphale sighs a lot.

"I've changed my mind, angel. I don't like this idea at all."

"Oh, Crowley. You're just saying that because you're wearing a pile of night crawlers on your head."

"So it's all right for you to have standards, but when I draw the line, it's suddenly a problem?"

"You think this is easy for me? These toadstools are moldy and smell of damp socks." Aziraphale adjusted his rags so the threadbare fabric covered more of his skin. "I honestly don't know why demons choose to look like this."

Crowley, who currently resembled a cross between an accountant and a boneyard, opened his mouth to comment, but Aziraphale cut him off.

"And don't say 'not all demons.'" Aziraphale sniffed. "I distinctly remember a period in the nineteen-eighties where your trousers had more holes in them than fabric.”

Crowley groaned. "How many times do I have to tell you, angel? It was _fashionable_."

"Fashion. Right. And I suppose if the maisons de couture started incorporating raw sewage into their designs, you would follow suit, hm? And don't call me 'angel’—you'll give us away."

Crowley shrugged, facing the Hell-escalator again. "Are you sure about this, an—er, Az? If things go wrong, we'll be grossly outnumbered."

"Things won't go wrong. We can be very sneaky when we want to be. Otherwise, Heaven would have found us out centuries ago."

“I’d still feel better with a paint-gun full of holy water pellets.”

“No holy water. It could just as easily—”

“—be turned to use on me. So you’ve said about a billion times.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have to keep saying it if you would stop bellyaching about it.”

“I don’t _bellyache_. I never. I produce reasoned arguments with sound logic and evidence, which you summarily dismiss out of hand.”

“Well, I don’t think you appreciate how stressful it was for me procuring it for you the first time.”

“But that turned out perfectly. Saved my life, you know.”

“I know. But _you_ didn’t have to pretend to be you and then sentenced to death by bathtub.”

“Come on. You had fun with it, by all accounts.”

“Perhaps, but the implication of your death still…weighed heavily on me. In any event, no holy water.”

Crowley repined dramatically. "All right, fine. Let’s get this over with.”

And down they went. Aziraphale felt the descent like a dip into a turgid, fetid swamp. To be fair, he also looked like a turgid, fetid swamp, so that might have been part of it. But it was notably less pleasant than the last time he'd entered Hell pretending to be Crowley, and that had been bad enough.

"Where should we start when we get there?" he asked Crowley as the moving staircase took them down for what seemed like miles.

"Forms Department, I'd imagine," Crowley said. "It's where all the paperwork ends up."

It turned out that walking through Hell with Crowley was both better and worse than when he'd been here alone. On the one hand, he felt safer with Crowley by his side than he ever did on his own. But on the other, he also felt every horrid inch of the place in the context of Crowley banishing himself to earth just to escape it. Aziraphale swore to himself that no matter what else happened, he would make absolutely sure that Crowley never had to set foot in Hell again if he didn't want to, even if it meant sending him to Alpha Centauri against his will.

Which then reminded Aziraphale of his and Crowley's conversation in the bakery about Gabriel's prediction that Crowley would abandon Aziraphale at some point. The idea made Aziraphale's heart ache, but he could live with it if it were in Crowley's best interest.

He could live with it more easily, in point of fact, than he could with Crowley repudiating Aziraphale's feelings for him out loud and in public. Hence the reason Aziraphale had essentially begged him to put off the conversation. He hoped Crowley intended to let him down easy, but one could never quite tell how the unpredictable demon would react to things. Better to hash it all out in private to avoid any embarrassing scenes. Not that Aziraphale was planning on making a scene. Just that his eyes tended to leak when he was particularly moved by emotion, good or bad. It was just one of the many odd side-effects that came with his corporeal body.

"What in blazes is all the heavy sighing about?" Crowley asked, breaking the silence between them.

"What sighing? I'm not sighing."

"Yes, you are. You’ve been sighing like anything the whole walk from the escalator. Are you having trouble breathing?"

"No," Aziraphale said, his tone clipped with irritation. "I am fine, I assure you."

"Well, cut it out, will you? We're nearly there."

Just as he said that, they rounded a corner and smack into another demon.

“Ha…how…are you?” Crowley said to the demon, pitching his voice oddly. “Praise Satan.”

“Er, what he said,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Praise Satan,” the other demon replied. He was about to move around them without another word, but then he hesitated and turned back to Crowley. “Do I know you?”

“Er, no—I mean, yes. No, we worked on that, er, sacrilege initiative together, a couple of decades ago, right?”

The demon looked suspicious. “The one with Malthus and Abaddon?”

“Er, wasn’t it Belphegor and Leonard?”

The demon frowned thoughtfully. “That’s right, Leonard. What an asshole.”

“Got the job done, though, am I right?”

The demon shrugged, his yellow wispy hair catching the fluorescent light like a nest of old cobwebs.

“Well, must be off,” Crowley said, half-saluting the other demon. “Rotten to see you, and all that.”

“Satanspeed,” the other demon said as he turned down an adjoining hallway.

After he’d left earshot, Crowley let go a held breath. “Holy fucking Hell, that was close.”

“Who was it?” Aziraphale said. “I didn’t recognize him.”

“That was Hastur, one of the Dukes of Hell.”

“I take it he knows you?”

“Just saw him last night,” Crowley admitted, craning his neck around Aziraphale.

“What? Why?”

“Not the time or place to explain. The important thing is that I think he bought it. Let’s get the prophecies and get the Hell out of here.”

“Fine. But I want the whole story when we get back.”

Two minutes later, Crowley led Aziraphale into a badly lit room with row upon row of scratched and dented file cabinets. Crowley yanked on the nearest file drawer, and with an agonizing screech, it scraped open, stopping halfway.

Aziraphale winced. “Good Lo—”

Crowley hissed, interrupting him. “Not here.”

“Right, sorry,” Aziraphale said. To rectify his near slip, he began opening file drawers as well, looking for anything resembling the prophecies.

“Area 51?” he said pulling out a grainy photo of Crowley outside an AirStream trailer near a barbed wire fence with a military No Trespassing sign. “That was one of yours?”

“Oh, right. Nearly forgot about that one. I covered a shift for Chupa back in the nineteen-fifties. Rumors were already there, really. Conspiracies pretty much write themselves.” He pulled open another drawer. “Ooo, look at this.”

“Is it the prophecies?” Aziraphale said, tottering over a crumbling banker’s box in his haste to get to Crowley.

“Nah,” Crowley said, showing him some old dot-matrix printouts containing columns of what looked like dates. “Y2K,” Crowley explained, pointing to the two-digit representation of each of the years in the date column. “One of my favorites. Global reach, you know. Got a bonus for that one.”

Aziraphale gave Crowley a flat look. “We must not be in the appropriate section. Perhaps if I start at the other end…”

Which is how it turned out that Aziraphale and Crowley were separated when everything went to…well, to Hell in a handbasket.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the demon Crowley, disguised as the slithering worm he actually is.”

“Lord Beelzebub…guys…come on, I don’t know what you’re—”

“Shut your festering, putrid mouth, you angel-ass-licking scum.”

Aziraphale peeked around the row of file cabinets, hidden from view, on the far end of the room from where Crowley faced off against a group of at least twenty demons. Crowley’s appearance morphed and resolidified as his disguise melted away.

“Damn,” Aziraphale whispered, trying desperately to think of a plan to get them both out.

“All right, you caught me,” Crowley said. “But I’m here to help you guys.”

“You expect us to believe that, traitor?”

“Ask Hastur. He knows I’m back on the side of the devils.”

“Hastur’s the one who told us you were here.”

“Hastur, really?” Crowley sounded wounded. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“I under_stand_ that you ruined thousands of years of planning our glorious victory in the blink of a single day. I under_stand_ that you killed Ligur, one of your own, rather than turn on your angel boyfriend,” said the cobweb-haired demon that Crowley and Aziraphale had run into earlier.

Several of the other demons made gagging noises at the last bit.

“You _hate_ Heaven, Hastur,” Crowley said, unperturbed. “All of you do. I can tell just by you judging me. You can’t work with them and for good reason. They’ll turn on you.”

“Like you did?”

“Yes! Exactly like I did. Only worse, because there are millions of them, and they’re way more powerful than me.”

Aziraphale inched closer, still with no clue how to pull Crowley out of this situation. Then he noticed Crowley had lowered the hand closest to Aziraphale and was making some sort of shooing gesture with it. Aziraphale wasn’t certain what Crowley meant, but if he was trying to communicate that Aziraphale should leave him, then Crowley was an idiot who was going to get an earful when they made it out of this mess.

“Where’s that other demon you had with you?” Hastur demanded, as a demon with shards of glass embedded in the shoulders of his brown leather jacket grabbed Crowley’s arm and pinned it behind his back. Aziraphale gasped, an unaccustomed fury sparking in his chest. “He a light-loving traitor like you?”

“Ow, ow, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Ow! Get off me.”

Aziraphale could feel his grip on his disguise faltering as his temper flared.

“Listen,” Crowley tried again. “I know for a fact that Heaven is planning to use you and then cast you aside.”

“Let them try,” Beelzebub said. “We’ll finally get our war.”

“Yeah, but how many of you will be destroyed in the process?”

“Not me,” Beelzebub said.

“No, probably not. Not Lucifer either, I’m sure. But what about Hastur? He’ll be on the frontlines. You think they’ll fight you fair with swords and crossbows? When they have guns and missiles and warheads they could fill to the brim with holy water? How much demon-fire can you fit into a warhead, do you think? Oh, wait. You don’t have any of those, do you?”

“Shut up!” Beelzebub shouted, slapping Crowley full across the face. “Heaven is not the enemy anymore. Humans are.”

Aziraphale, who’d felt that slap as if he had been the one to receive it, silently begged Crowley to stop talking. But Crowley was Crowley, and no force in any world could shut him up.

“Why?” Crowley asked, spitting blood. “Why are humans the enemy? They don’t even know we exist.”

“Because She replaced us with them. She made them to punish us.”

“That’s not true. She gave us choice, just like them. We chose.”

“Shut up! Shut UP!”

Several more demons grabbed Crowley’s various extremities, pulling in different directions.

“No trials this time, Crowley. No near misses. No escapes. You might be immune to holy water, but good luck getting the bursar to issue you a new body after we discorporate this one.”

Aziraphale’s rage fully swamped him, and his demon disguise deserted him completely. He gave up trying to think of a clean way to free Crowley. Instead, he reached out to the shadows around him and _pulled_.

“Gentlemen,” he said walking toward them, his voice booming with false greeting. “Would you care to see a magic trick?”

“_No_,” Crowley said, his teeth clenched in pain. “Go back, you idiot. Get out of here!”

Aziraphale ignored him, swirling his pitch-black cape around his shoulders, twirling his shadowy mustache.

“Can I get a volunteer from the audience? Anyone? We’re going to play a little game.”

“Seize him!” Beelzebub shouted.

As demons converged upon him, Aziraphale drew back the sleeves of his coat of darkness and produced razor sharp playing cards.

“Pick a card, any card,” he said as he flung them like frisbees at his attackers. The cards found their targets, lodging in eye sockets, severing limbs. The cries and groans of injured demons filled the room.

“Damn it!” Crowley swore.

And still more demons came as Aziraphale advanced forward, taking care to tread hard on the already fallen demons.

“Gather round, gather round. My next trick, you won’t want to miss.”

“Kill him!” Beelzebub screeched. “Now!”

Demon-fire flared around Aziraphale, brightening the ever-present gloom with the threat of excruciating death. Aziraphale didn’t even blink, let alone flinch. Crowley was in danger, and he simply wouldn’t stand for it. He pulled his smoky black hat off the top of his head and brandished it at the remaining demons.

“Why, what have we here? Is it? Could it be? Why, yes! It’s Harry, the rabbit!”

Crowley groaned in the background but Aziraphale, attuned as he was to rescuing his friend, barely heard him. The angel reached into the hat and pulled out the very tip of one giant rabbit ear. Then he let go as the enormous, big-as-an-elephant rabbit poured out of the vaporous hat and landed with a thump on top of the terrified, broken demons that cried out under its massive weight. The red-eyed rabbit opened its mouth and let out a monstrous roar that would do a Hellhound proud. Then it grabbed Beelzebub’s arm in its giant teeth and bit down hard.

The remaining demons scattered, leaving Aziraphale and Crowley alone with the fallen.

Aziraphale dropped the act and the shadows, leaving the rabbit to continue its fictional rampage as he grabbed Crowley by the arm and hauled him up.

“Come on. We’ve got to get out of here before they realize it’s all fake.”

“What?” Crowley said, shaking his head as if to clear it.

“Let’s go!”

But when Aziraphale began tugging Crowley in the direction of the escalator, Crowley pulled back.

“This way,” Crowley said. “There’s a secret route out through a parliament cloak room.”

Aziraphale followed without question, praying they’d make it before the rabbit evaporated completely.

“That wasn’t real back there? You didn’t do all that?” Crowley asked as they climbed a flight of broken steps.

“No,” Aziraphale said, breathing heavily. “Just shadows and imagination. Just a trick.”

“Damn good trick, that,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale smiled at the compliment, despite their desperate straits. “Well, I’m not terribly scary as Aziraphale,” he admitted. “Magicians are much scarier.”

Crowley stopped sharply at a closed door, turning back so that Aziraphale nearly ran right into him.

“I think you’re scary as Hell,” he said, the tip of his nose two inches from Aziraphale’s.

“Why, thank you,” Aziraphale said, breathless with more than just exertion. “I think.”

Then Crowley opened the door to the inside of the parliament’s cloak room, ushering Aziraphale inside. Aziraphale obliged, only to find Hastur waiting for them, holding the prophecies in his slimy hands.


	10. Heretics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a suggestion for advanced safety protocols.

“What the Devil are you doing here?” Crowley asked, pushing the angel behind him.

“Stand down, stand down,” Hastur said with a quelling look. “I’m not here to thwart you this time.”

“Well…why not?” Aziraphale asked.

“Warheads filled with holy water,” Hastur said. “That’s why.” Then he handed the prophecies to Crowley. “This what you want?”

“How did you know?” Crowley asked.

Hastur shrugged. “Agnes is an old friend.”

“Agnes is one of ours?” Crowley asked, truly shocked for once. “I hadn’t expected that.”

“Nah,” Hastur said. “Agnes ain’t anything but Agnes.”

“But then…how are you friends?”

Hastur shrugged again. “Things what get burned tend to end up in Hell, right?” he nodded toward the prophecies.

“Oh, the poor woman,” Aziraphale said, aghast.

Hastur chuckled. “Not like she stuck around long, but she visits once in a while. She’s wicked people, Agnes. Killed a whole village once.” He sounded proud of her, but he sobered quickly. “She sides with you, I think. Won’t say it outright, but… Anyway, told me to give you these.”

“Then…why did you rat us out to Beelzebub if you were planning to help us all along?” Crowley asked, utterly baffled.

Hastur glared at him. “I’m doing a friend a favor. And you two better be right about Heaven’s treachery, or I _will_ find you, and I _will _rip out your vital bits through your orifices.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” Aziraphale said.

And with that, Hastur opened the cloakroom door back to Hell and disappeared, taking the door with him.

“Well. That was something,” Crowley said, handing the prophecies to Aziraphale. “Let’s get out of here before anyone else figures out where we’ve gone.”

It took a cab ride to get back to the Bentley, and Aziraphale was muttering the whole way, deciphering the bits he could using the code key he’d apparently memorized.

Regaining the prophecies had come at a cost. Sure the seeds of dissent with Heaven had been sown, but Beelzebub was even more hacked off at Crowley than he’d been before. Crowley would have to double his efforts at protecting himself and the angel. Which meant constant watch. Which meant…cohabitation. The thought of it nearly dislocated his brain.

“Can you look at this one for me?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley grimaced but did as asked. “Looks like… _Confessions long overdue lead to destruction. Sacrifice bears fruit from the tree, but only if one chooses to taste._ See? Still nonsense.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, his eyes wide with wonder. “No, that’s it. That’s the prophecy. To me, it looks nothing like that. You can see the truth of it.”

“If you’re right, that has to be the single biggest irony of the entire universe.”

“I am right, and it’s not ironic at all. You’ve always seen the truth, Crowley. Just because the rest of us don’t prefer to believe it doesn’t make us right and you wrong.”

“I tempt people. I don’t tell them the truth.”

“You tell them the truth of their hearts.”

Crowley wanted to be anywhere other than in this conversation. “What does it mean? The prophecy. If it’s true, what does it mean?”

“No idea. But that one’s towards the end. Let’s start with something closer to now. How about this one?”

Which is how Crowley ended up reading out a bunch of rubbish in the back of a cab while Aziraphale jotted furiously on a receipt Crowley had found in one of his pockets. He was profoundly grateful when they finally transitioned to the Bentley, because he couldn’t very well read aloud while driving.

When they arrived at the bookshop, Crowley parked and got out with Aziraphale.

“If we work all night, we may be able to—”

“Angel, I need a break. It’s been a day.”

“Oh, all right. Sure. I suppose I could use some tea.”

“No. Definitely not tea.”

As Aziraphale unlocked the door and let them both in, Crowley immediately snapped his fingers to summon glasses and the first bottle of wine that popped into his mind.

“Really, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, wrinkling his nose.

“More for me,” Crowley said with a shrug.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t drink it,” Aziraphale said defensively, taking a glass.

After several refills, Crowley finally felt brave enough to broach the subject of…well, advanced safety protocols.

“Listen, angel. We need to talk.”

“Oh, dear. What about?”

Crowley leaned forward, setting his glass down on the coffee table. “I need you to move in with me.”

“What?”

“Move in with me. Temporarily.”

“Why?”

“Bad things happen—”

“—when we separate,” Aziraphale finished for him.

“Right.”

“Well, why don’t you move in with me?”

“Pardon?”

“Move in with me. Much easier for you to move your plants than for me to move my books.”

“I’m not moving my plants,” Crowley said, horrified. “Temporary, angel.”

“Well, fine,” Aziraphale said, seeming miffed. “You should still move in here. We’re translating prophecies and may need reference material.”

“Reference material,” Crowley said with an arched eyebrow. “Where would I sleep? The chaise?”

“I have a couch upstairs.”

Crowley took a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll move in here.”

Aziraphale looked suddenly nervous.

“What?” Crowley said.

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said. “It’s just. Kind of a big step, isn’t it?”

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Crowley said quickly. “It’s just so we can more easily guard each other’s backs. That’s all.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said, gazing at his empty wine glass for a moment before setting it down. “Tea?”

“No,” Crowley said, frowning. “I’m not nearly drunk enough yet.”

Aziraphale sighed and got up, heading to the back room, ostensibly to put the kettle on.

Crowley reached for his glass, then changed his mind and picked up the bottle instead. Drinking the rest in a few gulps, he set the empty bottle down, took off his sunglasses, and sunk his head into hands. This is the last thing he needed, anxiety over his and Aziraphale’s relationship. He needed to focus on the cataclysm at hand.

And as if the universe heard him, his phone buzzed in his trouser pocket. He took the mobile out and checked the number, tapping the button to answer the call.

“What do you want?” he said.

“Crowley? This is Anathema.”

“Yeah, I know that. Why are you calling?”

"Is Aziraphale there?"

"He's in the back. Why?"

"Can he hear you?"

"Eh, probably."

"Can you go outside or something? I have something to say, and I don't want him to hear it just yet."

Crowley left the bookshop to stand right outside the door. He could still protect the angel by keeping anyone from going in.

"All right, I'm outside. What is it?"

"I…had a dream. A troubling dream. And I hope it was just a dream, but…I've been having a lot of them lately. Some of them come true."

Several thoughts occurred to Crowley at once. First, that Anathema's powers were becoming more like Agnes's. Second, that Aziraphale must have surmised this already and told Newt at tea the previous day, which was why Newt had looked rather ill during their conversation. And third, maybe the descent into Hell hadn't been necessary after all, if they'd had their own prophetic witch all along.

"Tell me," he said.

"It's vague and weird. I had it last night but wasn't sure I should tell you."

"Tell me," he repeated more forcefully.

"It was Aziraphale surrounded by shadow. I couldn't see the danger, but I could sense it. Death everywhere. But also…and this is where it gets weird…a giant rabbit?"

Crowley sagged back against the door in relief.

"Don't worry about it," he said, heady with the seeming near miss.

"Why not? You think it's nothing?"

"No, it's definitely something. It just already happened."

Then he filled her in briefly on their recent adventure in Hell.

"Oh, God," Anathema said, sounding much less relieved than Crowley. "I hoped it was just a normal nightmare. I don't want…" She trailed off.

"I don't blame you," Crowley said. “Not like I want any of this either. I just want things to go back to the way they were."

"I don't think that's possible."

Crowley didn't respond. He agreed with her, but he wasn't prepared to say it out loud.

"There's more," Anathema continued.

"Another dream?"

"Not a dream. A reality."

"What do you mean?"

"Last time we averted the apocalypse, no one died."

"That's a good thing, right?"

"I think…I think that's why it didn't take."

"I don't follow."

"Every metaphysical disaster throughout history that reset the Armageddon clock…"

"Yes?"

"It required a sacrifice."

"Human sacrifice," Crowley said, thinking of floods and sons and prophecies yet to come.

“Yeah,” Anathema confirmed, her tone grave. “And just FYI, I'm not volunteering. Neither is Newt. Nor are the children."

"Well, no wonder you didn't want Aziraphale to hear. He's not going to take this well."

"Fix it, Crowley."

"What do you think I'm trying to do?"

"It isn't humanity's fault this time."

"I know, I know," Crowley said, scuffing his shoe on the pavement. "Look, just give me a call if you have any more nightmares, all right? Preferably before they have a chance to happen in real life."

"Okay."

With a heavy sigh, Crowley ended the call and went back inside the shop, only to drop his phone to the floor upon finding his arms suddenly full of angel.


	11. Admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the truth comes out, whether Aziraphale is prepared for it or not.

Aziraphale absently watched the kettle as it heated over the stove. He preferred it when food was prepared in the mundane, human way. Miracled food tended to taste bland and vaguely bitter, as if it had been left in plastic wrap too long. Aziraphale guessed that to be due to ethereal beings not particularly needing to eat, so there not being much point in pursuing authenticity. Regardless, human food tasted better, so Aziraphale took the time to make it properly, with only a few supporting miracles when he was in need of a shortcut.

No shortcuts for tea, though, or at least not this time. Aziraphale needed a moment away from Crowley to collect his thoughts.

The idea of living together, even temporarily, frightened Aziraphale. What if he slipped somehow, and Crowley found out about Aziraphale’s true feelings, assuming the demon didn’t already know? Would Crowley think Aziraphale had been dishonest in his representation and understanding of the living arrangement? Would Crowley feel lied to? Taken advantage of? Worse, _was_ Aziraphale taking advantage of Crowley? The angel’s feelings about his friend were always so muddled that it was difficult for Aziraphale to tell. He definitely liked the idea of Crowley living with him more than he should, more than was proper, given the situation. Maybe he owed it to Crowley to be up front about it.

On the other hand, what if his admission made their arrangement unbearably awkward? Crowley was right that they needed to stay together. What if sharing the truth of his feelings made it impossible for them to do so, and then Crowley somehow got hurt because of it?

Aziraphale went round and round in his head over the conundrum as he poured the water into his cup, added milk and sugar, and stirred. He was no closer to coming to a conclusion when he meandered back out to the sitting room where he’d left Crowley.

Only Crowley wasn’t there.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale said to the stillness, hand frozen around his spoon mid-stir. “Crowley? Where are you?”

He set down his cup and quickly searched the shop. No Crowley. He had a toilet for customers, but the door was ajar, the light off. He even searched the rooms upstairs. Still no Crowley.

Then he returned to the sitting room and noticed something he hadn’t before…Crowley’s sunglasses on the coffee table. The sunglasses he never went anywhere without. And that’s when Aziraphale started to panic.

Aziraphale picked up Crowley’s glasses. “There must be a logical explanation,” he said out loud, sounding less convincing than Crowley had about Alpha Centauri’s terrible Yelp reviews.

Memories of what had just transpired in Hell bubbled up to the forefront of Aziraphale’s brain, turning every shadow into an immortal enemy.

“Crowley, for God’s sake, where are you?”

Then the shop door opened, and Crowley walked in, wearing his most irritable expression while switching off his mobile. And all the mingled terror and relief rose up in Aziraphale’s throat at once, nearly choking him.

He moved without thinking, throwing himself into Crowley as if he’d done it a million times, confident in some subconscious part of his mind that Crowley would catch him.

“What is it, angel? What’s wrong?” Crowley asked, his arms wrapping tightly around Aziraphale. He shifted Aziraphale to the side, scanning the room for some source of danger.

“Y-you were gone. And you left your glasses. I thought they had come back, and taken…”

Crowley relaxed, though his arms stayed where they were. “I just stepped out to answer a call, angel.”

Aziraphale pulled back, suddenly embarrassed at his overreaction. They’d never once been so physically entwined, not in six millennia of guarded friendship, and there had been a myriad of better reasons for this sort of reaction than Crowley being missing for five ridiculous seconds.

"I'm sorry, Crowley. I didn't mean to do that…to make you uncomfortable. I know you don't feel about me that way and probably don't like touching in general let alone embracing and I promise it won’t—“

"Feel about you in what way?" Crowley interrupted, sounding surprised.

Aziraphale could feel his cheeks redden, his corporeal body betraying him again.

"I-I only mean that I-I know you don't…"

“I don't what, angel?" Crowley's tone had gone deathly quiet.

There would never be a better time than now to come clean. Apparently, events had conspired to push Aziraphale in the direction of honesty, and maybe it was for the best. He owed Crowley the truth before Crowley made a decision about moving in, even if it were only a temporary arrangement. If Crowley abandoned him and his mission to prevent the next apocalypse because of his true feelings, well, Aziraphale would just have to find a way to live with that.

“You don't love me," Aziraphale finished, nearly miracling the floor to open up and swallow him back to Hell.

Crowley stalked closer, looming over him.

"Do you mean to say that you _do_ love _me_?"

"Yes, of course, I do. Hadn't you noticed?"

"No. Not like that—not like where an angel loves everybody, because it's in the job description. Not that."

"No. More than that," Aziraphale confirmed, unable to look Crowley in the eye, despite his proximity. "I am in love with you, Crowley. I'm afraid I have been for some time."

"For some time," Crowley repeated softly, almost bitterly.

Aziraphale waited for him to move away, to laugh off his admission or to leave or to yell at him. _Some_thing. But Crowley just waited.

“If this means you no longer feel comfortable with your suggestion to temporarily room together, then I completely understand,” Aziraphale continued. “I am sure we will find a way to manage without—“

"And how did you come to this conclusion that I don't love you, angel?" Crowley asked in that same dark, velvet voice that sent chills down Aziraphale's spine.

"Well, obviously," Aziraphale said, clearing his throat. "I annoy you."

"What?"

"I annoy you. I'm always getting into trouble. I called your favorite band 'bebop.' You hate it when I do my magic act. I can't go with you to Alpha Centauri. You don't even like it when I touch your houseplants. You can admit it. I annoy you. A lot."

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. His shoulders started shaking. At first, Aziraphale was aghast, thinking he'd somehow made Crowley cry, even though that hardly seemed likely. Within seconds, however, Crowley's laughter escaped his control and he erupted completely, cackling to the ceiling with unhinged mirth.

Aziraphale straightened, adjusting his shoulders under the weight of his embarrassment. Though it was expected, it was still hurtful, and his cheeks burned all the more for it. If they weren't standing in his bookshop, he'd have left already. Maybe he should leave, at least for the moment. Let the demon have a good guffaw over it. Then they could go back to—well, mostly normal.

But as Aziraphale took a step toward the door, Crowley grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him up against the nearest wall, no longer laughing.

"Oh, I don't think so, angel. We are having this out right here, right now."

"Let me go, Crowley. I've already told you everything—”

"Yes, you've told me all about what _you_ think, and as usual, you've got most of it wrong."

"Well, there's no need to—“

"Stop talking, Aziraphale."

"All _right_," the angel agreed testily, pulling out of the demon's hold and tugging at his waistcoat. "Tell me how very wrong I am about my own feelings."

"Your feelings, your feelings. Everything is always about _your_ feelings."

"I beg your pardon."

"You stupid angel. I’ve only been in love with you for six thousand years."


	12. Pears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's turn to confess in true Crowley fashion.

_You stupid angel. I've only been in love with you for six thousand years._

Well, fabulous. This was obviously going to go well. He'd just confessed his deepest, darkest secret to the most important person in the universe, and he'd started out by calling him 'stupid.'

"Don't jest with me, Crowley," Aziraphale replied, angling away and crossing his arms. "I am not in the mood. I nearly discorporated myself from heart attack, thinking you'd been taken. I admitted my feelings in good faith so that you'd have all the relevant information before—“

Crowley growled, throwing his arms up in frustration. "Yes! All right? You annoy the Hell out of me. You do. And every time you do, you make it worse.”

"Crowley, that doesn’t— You’re not making any sense.“

Crowley paced closer to him, but Aziraphale stepped back so Crowley paced sideways instead. He couldn't afford to scare Aziraphale into bolting. Not now. Not yet.

"Your magic act? Is demeaning. You can do real magic, but you insist on doing illusions—poorly, I might add—because you think it will be more entertaining for your audience. Which is just disgustingly adorable.

"Also, disgustingly adorable? Is how you don't know anything about modern music or fashion or technology, because you already know who you are and what you like and you have no use for pretending otherwise.

"And, yes, you're constantly getting into trouble, but almost always because you care about these silly humans and you have faith that good will always triumph, which would normally be _unutterably_ boring, except your version of good isn't following rules, it's following your heart.

"And you will never say yes to Alpha Centauri, because you would never leave innocent people behind. Because you've done it once and you didn't like it and you don't want to do it again.

"So yeah, all of that is enormously annoying, because all I want to do, all I've ever wanted to do, since that first conversation on the wall, is keep you safe and make you smile as often as I can."

Aziraphale still wouldn't quite look at him. "If that last part is true, then why do your feelings seem to bother you so much?"

"It bothers me, angel, because it makes me vulnerable. And the more vulnerable I am, the less likely I’ll be able to pull our bacon out of this insufferable save-the-world fire we keep finding ourselves in.” Crowley frowned. Maybe there was such a thing as too much transparency. “Also, I hate being vulnerable. Gives me hives.“

Aziraphale bit his lip against a growing smile.

"What?"

Aziraphale shook his head. "Only you would tell someone you loved them couched in a litany of insults."

Crowley gaped at him. "I was trying to get you to believe me."

Aziraphale leaned against the desk behind him, his hands pressed between the wood and his lower back, his smile turning shy. "And the plants?"

Crowley slid closer to Aziraphale, nearly pinning the angel to the desk he leaned against. "The plant-stroking, angel, is annoying on a whole other level that I don't think you're ready to hear about yet."

Aziraphale tugged at his collar to loosen it a little. "I see. Well, perhaps you should try me."

Crowley blinked, mouth suddenly dry, heart suddenly pounding. Was he really going to do this? Was he really prepared if it all went pear shaped?

_I like pears_.

Before his addled brain could get in the way and muck everything all to Hell, Crowley took Aziraphale's chin in his hand, tilted it up, and then touched his lips ever so lightly to Aziraphale's. And he knew in that second that the last vestiges of himself that he'd kept apart—as a failsafe, as something to regenerate from if he ever lost Aziraphale—were ripped from him and laid at Aziraphale's feet as all the rest of him had been long ago.

Aziraphale sighed happily against Crowley's lips, which unaccountably weakened Crowley's knees even as it deepened the kiss, and Crowley had to brace himself against the desk to keep from falling. Well, falling further. At which point, Crowley broke the kiss, drawing in a ragged breath and looking down at his angel with the shining smile.

"How long?" Crowley couldn't resist asking.

"How long what, dear?"

"How long have you…have you been…"

"How long have I been in love with you?" Aziraphale said, a teasing note in his voice. "Well, probably longer than I realize, but if I had to put a moment on it, it would be over crepes in Paris. 1793."

"1793? And I'm just hearing about this now?"

“Oh, please. You have no room to judge, charlatan,” Aziraphale chided fondly. "But I wouldn't say I _knew_ in 1793. I believe that's when it happened, or at least, fully happened. I'm sure it had been building before that."

"Aziraphale…"

"In any case, I think I first realized it after the Saint James argument."

"Which one of the thousands?"

"You know which one."

Crowley traced Aziraphale's cheek with a finger. "The duck-ears argument."

Aziraphale gave him an exasperated look. "The holy-water argument."

"Yes, the _fraternizing_ argument. I remember. How could that possibly have been the moment you realized? We didn't speak again for nearly a century."

"I was too upset for it to be a normal argument. I was too worried about your wellbeing. I was too everything." Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley's hips, causing Crowley to hiss a little. "I was too everything to deny it any longer. And then the church bombing happened."

"And I saved your books."

"And, notably, _not_ the font of holy water."

Crowley huffed in surprised amusement. "You know, it never even occurred to me to save the holy water?”

"Exactly," Aziraphale breathed and kissed him.

Kissed _him_. A demon. After everything. After _there is no our side, Crowley_. After _we are not having this conversation_. After the thousand _no_’s Crowley had heard through the millennia. Aziraphale had finally fallen, without Falling, for him.

Crowley asked against his angel's lips, "What do we do now?"

"Heaven if I know," Aziraphale said, tilting his head away with a smile. “Crepes?”


	13. Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to get real.

Two days later, Aziraphale sat on the usual bench in Saint James park, holding a leather-bound notebook open with one hand and making a few notes in the margins with the other. It was all a very awkward position for writing, but he couldn’t rest the book in his lap as he normally would, due to his lap being otherwise occupied.

“Oh, do put that bloody book down, will you? I’m trying to nap here.”

“Darling, we can’t afford to be laissez-faire about this. Heaven and Hell won’t be,” Aziraphale said, though he set his pen in the crease of the book and transferred his writing hand from productivity to stroking Crowley’s head where it lay in his lap.

Crowley hmmed low in his throat, almost a purr, if snakes could be said to purr.

“That’s nice,” he said. “Keep doing that.”

Aziraphale sighed with reservation but complied nonetheless. It’s not as if he didn’t want to spend all his time petting Crowley. He very much did. But the mounting anxiety in the back of his mind that it would all end and soon if he didn’t solve Anges’s latest puzzles wouldn’t let him fully relax.

He and Crowley had spent the last forty-eight hours deciphering the parchment prophecies, whenever Crowley wasn’t actively tempting Aziraphale with cuddles and stolen kisses and crepes. Unfortunately for the fate of the world, Aziraphale was highly suggestible and very easily tempted, at least by Crowley.

Why, just that morning, for example, Aziraphale had been attempting to compile a list of Elizabethan slang that he could reference when translating some of Agnes’s trickier passages. But Crowley had circumvented that goal handily when he wouldn’t leave off nibbling Aziraphale’s ear. It would have been annoying if it hadn’t been so…agreeably pleasant. After a minute or so of the sweet torture, Aziraphale had finally given in and joined Crowley on the chaise for more than half an hour of wanton canoodling. Altogether, Crowley had set him back hours in his work, but Aziraphale couldn’t honestly bring himself to regret it. 

The notebook Aziraphale had been writing in now held the translated copies of every one of Agnes’s new prophecies. He’d hidden the originals in his bookshop, as he should have done with the second copy. And he guarded the notebook with all the translations as he did his wings, placing it in a different metaphysical plane whenever he wasn’t actively referencing or writing in it. With a thought, he did so then, having memorized at least the first few prophecies by heart at this point, though he still had no idea of their meaning.

“You know how these prophecy things work, angel. The meaning will become clear when it’s time for it to, and not before.”

“I know you’re right. I just feel like we should be doing _something_. God Herself charged me with preventing the alliance between Heaven and Hell, and I can’t help but feel something terrible is happening that we just don’t know about yet.”

Crowley captured Aziraphale’s gesticulating hand and pulled it to his chest.

“It’s all right. Whatever it is, we’ll bungle it so badly that we’ll actually succeed. That’s our MO.”

Aziraphale smiled all his fondness down at the lanky demon laying full out on the bench as if he owned all the world, or perhaps this little piece of it. He supposed for his part, Crowley did own his heart. And that was something, wasn’t it? A demon loving an angel, despite millennia of hereditary enmity. If they could change, then surely the others could as well. Set aside their differences. Work together for the good of all creation.

“What are you thinking?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, nothing, dear. Just how much I adore you.”

“Well, I like that. Keep on doing that as well, will you?”

A few minutes drifted past, and Aziraphale, despite himself, felt his muscles loosen ever so slightly. Crowley had always done this to him, since the beginning, given him permission to just be. Aziraphale took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, sent a prayer of thanks to his Creator.

But as with all things bright and beautiful, it couldn’t last for long. The disruption of their peaceful moment came in the form of a telephone call on Crowley’s mobile.

After letting it buzz without acknowledgment twice, three times, Crowley finally pulled the device from his pocket, tapped the screen, and put it to his ear.

“This better be good,” he growled.

Then he listened for about half a second before raising reluctantly up onto his elbows.

“Saint James park, why?”

At the caller’s reply, Crowley jumped instantly to his feet, reaching down for Aziraphale’s hand and pulling him up as well.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asked.

But Crowley ignored his question as he took off at a run toward the water, pulling Aziraphale behind him. Crowley’s eyes scanned the sky as he ran so that he almost tripped over people lunching on a blanket.

“Crowley, wait! What’s going on?”

“I don’t see anything,” Crowley said to whomever was on the phone. “Are you sure?”

“Crowley—”

“When? What time?”

But before anything else could be said, a giant boulder with a diameter the size of a bus fell from the sky, utterly crushing the bench they’d just been lounging on.

“Gotta go, bicycle-girl.”

Crowley pocketed his phone, staring at the giant rock and still clutching Aziraphale’s hand.

“Anathema foresaw this?” Aziraphale said.

“Yes. In a dream. We have to get out of here.”

“Something’s happening,” Aziraphale said, pointing to the rock.

As they watched, red fissures appeared all over the rock’s face, brightening into lines of fire. Aziraphale caught onto what that portended a split second before Crowley did.

“Run!” the angel shouted to the humans who’d stood near them, gawking. “It’s going to blow up!”

Humans scattered in either direction, some even jumping over the fence and into the water. Aziraphale stepped in front of Crowley and spread his wings, extending them out in his mind far further energetically than their normal physical dimensions, circling them around the boulder as far as he could reach.

“No!” Crowley shouted, grabbing Aziraphale’s shoulder.

But the demon was too late. The fissures flashed to blinding white and a sound like a crack of celestial thunder detonated just as the rock fractured into a million tiny missiles firing in as many directions, all of them hitting Aziraphale.

The angel sank to his knees, feeling strangely faint. The pain didn’t hit him until a few seconds later.

“Oh, dear,” he said, and collapsed to the ground and darkness.


	14. Rebels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes get a little help from above.

“Angel!” Crowley shouted at Aziraphale, turning him over and cataloguing all the blood, all the wounds that he, as a demon, had zero power to heal.

“Angel, wake up!” If he could just get Aziraphale to open his eyes, it would be all right. “Wake up, damn it!”

But Aziraphale’s wings, bent and bloodied, were still spread out in this metaphysical plane, which did not bode well for the angel.

“Help!” Crowley yelled at the panicking humans still scurrying around him like mice. “Help him! Please!”

But these weren’t emergency personnel, they were just ordinary humans, and they’d just seen a rock fall from Heaven and explode into a million pieces while a man with giant, fluffy white wings stood between them and it. There was only so much their tiny pea brains could manage.

Crowley was about to miracle himself and Aziraphale to a _mortal_ hospital, at a complete loss for what else to do, when a bright ball of white light appeared just in front of him. He shielded his eyes, covering Aziraphale with his body, wings and all, to protect him from whatever this new threat was.

“Sorry! Sorry! I’m an idiot. Hold on…let me just… There. Is that better?”

Crowley blinked the afterimage out of his eyes enough to make out a man in a suit similar to Crowley’s but all white where Crowley’s was shades of black.

No, wait. Not a man.

“Who the Hell are you, and what do you want?”

“I can help.”

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s shoulders and pulled him into his lap. “You’re not bloody taking him!”

“No, no, not at all. Of course. I’m sorry, I’m buggering this all up, aren’t I?”

The newcomer kneeled on Aziraphale’s other side, his hands out and palm up in a reassuring gesture. His hair was stylish, his eyes a blue so bright it almost hurt to look at them. He was handsome, but not in the harsh, square-jawed way that Gabriel was. Crowley loathed him on sight.

“I promise you, I’m here to help. My name is Raphael. Well, I go by Raph, but…anyway, not important. I want to heal him. Is that okay?”

Crowley let go a shuddering breath, scared and hopeful at the same time.

“Why should I trust you?”

Raphael’s expression turned grave. “Because he’s dying. Or…discorporating. But with his reputation shot to Hell in Heaven, if he discorporates…”

“Do it,” Crowley snapped. “But if you hurt him, I will _destroy_ you.”

“Okay, okay.”

Then turning his attention to Aziraphale, the other angel put both palms down, one on Aziraphale’s hip, one on his opposite shoulder. Then he closed his eyes and tilted his head, as if listening. A minute later, he pulled back, looking pale and tired.

“Been a while since I’ve done that,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Is he…is he…?” Crowley choked. Aziraphale was still covered in blood and unconscious.

“He was close. Too close,” the other angel said, his expression still grave. “But he’ll live.”

Crowley crushed Aziraphale’s bloody head to his chest. “You stupid, stupid angel,” he muttered to him. But after a second, Crowley realized Raphael was still there.

“Why?” he asked him. “Why did you…?”

The other angel opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by Aziraphale regaining consciousness.

“Table for two, please,” he mumbled as he blinked his eyes open. “Oh, dear, what happened?”

“You were an idiot! That’s what happened!” Crowley shouted at him.

“Well, that does sound like me,” Aziraphale said, noticing his blood-spattered wings. “Oh, _dear_.” He quickly popped them out of the earthly plane and back to wherever he usually kept them.

Then he noticed his coat.

“Oh, no! Oh, my coat! Oh.” He pouted adorably as he sat up and shouldered it off. It was riddled with holes and covered with blood. “I suppose there’s no saving it this time,” he said as he wadded it into a ball.

“Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate,” Raphael said, calling Aziraphale’s attention away from his wardrobe.

“Oh, yes. Hello. Who are you?”

“I am Archangel Raphael, Guardian of the Pool of Bethesda.”

As the ethereal toff spoke, his voice took on the booming tonal quality of angelic heralds and he started glowing again. Crowley rolled his eyes heavenward.

“Sorry, sorry—I’m doing it again, aren’t I? It’s hard to get the hang of this earthly camouflage.” He managed to shrink his light and voice back to normal. Then he stuck his hand out for Aziraphale to shake. “I’m Raph. I’m here to help.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. And then, “_Oh_,” as he put two and two together and realized that he’d _nearly died_. “Crowley, dear, if you wouldn’t mind. You’re crushing me.”

Crowley growled but loosened his grip. Slightly.

“I appreciate your intervention, Raph,” Aziraphale said, taking the other angel’s extended hand. “But…that rock was sent from Heaven, was it not?”

Raph’s grave expression returned, and he didn’t answer directly.

“Why would you help me if Heaven is trying to kill me?”

Raph looked around surreptitiously, causing Crowley to do the same. “Here is not the best place to have this conversation. May I?”

Aziraphale cocked his head to the side as he studied Raph. “Yes, if you would be so kind. We would be much obliged.”

“What?” Crowley said, slow on the uptake.

But before he could fully form the question, he, Aziraphale, and Raph disappeared from Saint James and reappeared the next moment on the floor of the bookshop.

Crowley fell back with a curse. Aziraphale took the opportunity to get to his feet, and Raph followed his lead. Grumbling, Crowley joined them, though he was still beyond agitated over the afternoon's events.

"Tea," Aziraphale pronounced. "We need tea. I'll be back shortly."

"I could just…" Raph began, but Aziraphale had already left the room, leaving Crowley glaring at Raph, arms crossed.

"Why doesn't he just miracle himself some tea?" Raph asked.

Crowley didn't bother answering. He just intensified his glare. Raph frowned back but didn't push.

The two were still standing in silent impasse when Aziraphale returned, wearing a fresh shirt and having cleaned off most of the blood. He ignored the tension between the waiting angel and demon and handed Raph a cup, gesturing to the sitting area.

"Shall we sit?"

Crowley swept ahead of the angels to his usual chaise. Damned if he was going to be displaced by some dandy with who-knew-what agenda.

"So, what brings you to earth, Raph?" Aziraphale asked as if the interloper had just popped in for a brief visitation.

"I'm glad I arrived in time," Raph said, beginning at the end like a moron. "I didn't learn of Gabriel's attack until it had been initiated. How did you learn of it? You must have known it was coming to move out of the way."

"That's none of your business, _Raph_," Crowley said, scowling.

"We have our ways," Aziraphale said more calmly. "But you'll have to forgive us for not going into detail. It's not our secret to share."

"Of course. It's of no moment to my mission in any case."

"What is your mission, if I may ask?" Aziraphale said.

"There are a few of us in Heaven who don't agree with Head Office. We agree with you. Both of you. We don't believe that the Almighty's Ineffable Plan is the same as the Great Plan."

"How many is a few?" Aziraphale asked, sounding intrigued.

Raph grimaced. "Not nearly enough to sway the rest. A handful."

"Out of millions?" Crowley laughed. "Useless angels."

"A handful is more than we had last time," Aziraphale reminded him. Then he turned his attention back to Raph. "And your mission?"

"Broadly, to help you put a stop to the alliance between Heaven and Hell. More specifically, to guard your back. Protect you."

"That's my job," Crowley growled, just as Aziraphale said, in surprise, "Protect _me_? Why me?"

Looking between the two of them, Raph chose to answer Aziraphale's question.

"The Antichrist was the key to Armageddon," Raph explained. "Heaven and Hell were bound by prophecy to follow events controlled by the Antichrist's will. But there is no Antichrist this time."

"Yes, we know," Crowley said. "What does that have to do with Aziraphale?"

"Heaven and Hell are not bound by anything. They are free to do whatever they want whenever they want however they want to do it."

"Again, not telling us anything we don't already know," Crowley said.

"Hush, dear," Aziraphale said with a reproving look. "Let the poor boy finish."

Crowley scowled scowlingly.

"You stopped the end of the world. The Head Office believes you are the single biggest threat to Heaven. Not just to the alliance with Hell, but to all of Heaven."

Aziraphale scoffed. "That's silly. Gabriel believes I'm soft, the angelic embodiment of a marshmallow, and he's right. Ask Crowley."

Raph turned to Crowley, eyebrows raised in a _can you believe this guy_ expression.

Crowley sighed. "He is a marshmallow. And also the biggest threat Heaven has ever faced, up to and including Lucifer."

"That's not— He's joking," Aziraphale said, shaking his head and hiding his exasperated amusement behind his teacup.

"Regardless of whether you are a threat or not," Raph continued. "Head Office now believes you to be, so they've put out word that whomever manages to neutralize you—permanently—will be elevated to Seraphim status."

Aziraphale blanched, choking on his tea.

"What does that mean, permanently?" Crowley demanded. "And why now? What changed?"

"Gabriel brought back a stack of prophecies that no one can read. He's convinced that you somehow used them to fool the Almighty into letting you go, which shouldn't be possible. He thinks you are Fallen and hiding it. He thinks you are trying to usurp the throne of Heaven and rule the universe yourself.”

The longer Raph talked, the more distraught Aziraphale's expression became.

"None of that is true. Not in the least."

"I know," Raph said. "There are those who think Head Office has lost its way."

Crowley closed his eyes and leaned his head against the chaise.

"So you're here to protect him from every other angel in existence," Crowley said.

"Not just him," Raph said. "Heaven is after you, too, if the opportunity presents itself."

"Wonderful."

"The bookshop should be safe," Raph said. "We've managed to hide it from Heaven's global positioning system as well as erect an alarm barrier that alerts us if anyone with ill intent crosses the threshold. It's the best we could do for now."

"Wait," Aziraphale said. "Is anyone else in danger?"

"I don't know. I can ask."

"Please do," Aziraphale said, worry shading his expression. Then to Crowley he said, "Maybe we should bring them here. Just in case."

"I don't think so, angel. They are safer anonymous than we could ever keep them."

"But if they _are_ known…"

Crowley groaned. "All right. But it's not going to be easy to convince them, let alone keep them safe. Especially the pint-sized ones."

"We'll cross that bridge if we get to it."

"So what now?" Crowley asked.

Raph looked expectantly at Aziraphale, clearly waiting for some brilliance to drip from his lips. Crowley shook his head in disbelief. They were all so completely fucked.

"Well, I guess we keep doing what we're doing. Interpret Agnes's next prophecy and do what she says."

Crowley sighed. Then he stood abruptly.

"Angel, we need to talk. Alone.”


	15. Prophecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Advanced level prophecy translation plus some angsty-protective Crowley.

“Angel, we need to talk. Alone,” Crowley said, glaring unnecessarily at Raph.

"Oh. Yes, all right," Aziraphale said, setting his teacup down on the table next to his chair. He rose and followed Crowley upstairs to the rooms above the shop.

“I don't trust him,” Crowley said, as soon as the door was shut.

"I think he seems nice enough.”

"I don't trust anyone but us…and, occasionally, bicycle-girl. I certainly don't trust some tosser from Heaven promising pretty things like protection," Crowley said, pacing back and forth between the couch and the kitchenette with the same energy as an aggrieved cat, back arched and fur bristled.

"Yes, but we are outnumbered as it is. We cannot afford to alienate potential allies."

Truthfully, Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to think of a group of rebel angels in Heaven. He hoped they didn’t expect him to direct them. He could barely decide on a course of action for himself, let alone anyone else.

“He’s not an ally, he’s an intruder.”

“He’s only been a help so far, and he might be able to give us valuable intelligence as a double-agent or something.”

“This is not a game of spy versus spy! Remember how that worked out for you in 1941?”

Aziraphale took a steadying breath. “I’m not saying we should hand over the prophecies to him and invite him to do whatever he wants with them. I’m just saying we shouldn’t rule out external help altogether.”

"You're being unconscionably dense,” Crowley groused.

“And you are letting your biases dictate strategy,” Aziraphale pushed back, bracing for a full-on argument.

"Strategy? What strategy? We don't _have_ a strategy. Obviously. Because you nearly…" Crowley choked to a stop. 

It suddenly dawned on Aziraphale what this conversation was really all about. He pulled Crowley into his arms, drawing the demon’s head down to his shoulder. Crowley didn't resist, thankfully. Instead, he shuddered and then sort of crumpled into Aziraphale's embrace.

"I'm fine, dear,” Aziraphale assured him. “As long as I'm with you, I'm always fine."

"I couldn't heal you. I can’t ever…”

"I can't heal you, either," Aziraphale pointed out. “But we'll figure it out. We always do."

He kissed the crown of Crowley's head where it rested next to his cheek. At which point, Crowley pulled back enough to cradle Aziraphale's face in his hands.

“Stop being an idiot, all right? Just until this end-of-the-world nonsense is done. That’s all I ask.”

“Of course, Crowley. You know I try.”

Then Crowley kissed his forehead. Aziraphale felt the zing all the way to his toes. He’d never get used to that feeling if he lived another six thousand years, which was just fine with him.

_Bzzzzzzzt_.

“Fuck me,” Crowley grumbled, as he took out his mobile and put it to his ear. “What is it?”

Crowley listened for a moment before saying, “We’re all right,” and then added, mumbling, “thanks to you.” Which was the closest anyone would ever get to a proper thank-you from Crowley. 

Then Crowley tapped the screen and held the mobile out between himself and Aziraphale.

“He’s listening,” Crowley said.

“Aziraphale, oh my God, are you okay?” Anathema said through the mobile.

“Yes, dear. Thank you so much for checking in. We should have thought to call you.”

“What happened? I only know what I saw on the news…well, and in my dream.”

Aziraphale recounted events, noting Crowley’s twitching when he got to the bit about being healed by Raphael.

“Holy shit,” she said when he finished.

“Holy hand-grenade, more like,” Crowley muttered.

Ignoring him, Anathema said, “Were there any prophecies about a giant rock falling from the sky?”

“No, more’s the pity,” Aziraphale said, snapping his book into being. He thumbed through the pages to the beginning. “There’s one about a burning summons from a poll of clod. Could that be it?”

“A poll of clod?” Anathema replied. “That’s what it says?”

“Yes. Although, I’m not sure ‘summons’ is an accurate description for the intent behind the—”

“In her previous prophecies,” Anathema interrupted, “Agnes would often transpose her diction, elongating phrases unnecessarily, separating words that were normally contractions.”

“Another bloody code?” Crowley said.

“No, not really. It was just her manner of speaking. I’ve seen ‘poll of clod’ before. We determined it meant ‘clodpoll,’ which is British for stupid person.”

“We know what a clodpoll is,” Crowley scoffed.

“Wait, a ‘burning summons?’” Aziraphale said, excited. “When Gabriel came to my bookshop to deliver the message that God wanted to speak to me, he brought the Flaming Sword with him.”

“He did _what_?”

“Well, he didn’t use it. He was just making a point.”

“The more I hear about every interaction you have with Heaven, the more I want to wire them all to an electric fence and flip the switch,” Crowley said.

“He wouldn’t have used it on me. He said it was more for insurance in case you tried to interfere,” Aziraphale said, realizing perhaps too late that this was not a reassuring response.

“Oh, oh, really. Oh, I see. Mmm. Well, now I have ample reason to look forward to our next meeting.”

“Oh, no, I don’t think that will be at all—well—er,” Aziraphale said, trying to veer the conversation back on track. “Regardless, Gabriel certainly fits the bill for clodpoll. Which gives us a baseline of where we are in time. Let’s jump ahead a bit.”

Aziraphale quickly leafed through a couple of pages, muttering to himself while reading. This new insight into Agnes’s manner of writing might actually help them get somewhere.

“Here! I think this is it.” Aziraphale pointed out the passage to Crowley, who then read the line out loud.

“_When earth falls from sky and sky falls to earth, the time has of certes come to confront the Spectre_,” Crowley read. “What in all nine Hells is the Spectre?”

“Spectre with a capital S?” Anathema asked.

“I believe so,” Aziraphale said. “I tried to copy the text as faithfully as I could. I doubt I’d have capitalized it if she hadn’t done so.”

“Agnes uses Spectre and Death interchangeably.”

“Well, you certainly confronted death, angel, and I’m still quite put out about it.”

“No, she meant Death,” Anathema insisted. “With a capital D. As in—“

“As in the fourth Horseman,” Aziraphale finished. “But how are we even supposed to find him, let alone confront him? It’s not as if Death frequents a pub in West End.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “Well, actually…”


	16. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is incredibly smug.

“I’m sorry, I must not have heard you properly. You want to go where to do what now?”

Raph was not taking the news of their next steps very well, which pleased the Hell out of Crowley. Finally, someone else was on the receiving end of Aziraphale’s relentless stubbornness.

“We need to go to a bowling alley in Kennington to talk to Death,” Aziraphale repeated with slightly crisper enunciation.

“No, that is what I heard the first time. I’m just still not understanding it.”

Aziraphale gave Raph his consternated look, as if Raph were Crowley and being purposely obtuse to annoy him. Crowley could have gone either way on that one—annoyed that Aziraphale could just replace Crowley in his brain with any random person, or gratified that, on some level, Aziraphale must be realizing now that Crowley was not alone in his agitation over Aziraphale’s more harebrained ideas. Crowley chose to remain amused overall.

“It is written in the prophecies,” Aziraphale tried patiently to explain. “We need to talk to Death and—”

“And what? Get his autograph?” Raph said, incredulously.

“—And find out what Death knows about the coming war.”

Raph rounded suddenly on Crowley. “You realize you’re asking him to place himself at great personal risk. Death could kill any of us at a whim, with no more than a touch.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot several inches above the rim of his sunglasses. So the young upstart thought Crowley was behind all this, did he? Well, well, this discussion was going to be even more delightful than Crowley had initially presumed.

“You disapprove…Raph?” Crowley said, baiting him.

“I very much disapprove. I cannot keep him safe under such circumstances, and I would have thought you, of all people, would not suggest that he go haring off into danger when Heaven is literally flinging everything it can think of at him.”

Crowley sauntered absently toward the Jeffrey Archer books, leaning against the bookcase and nodding sagely, as if Raph were not about to dig his own grave with Aziraphale.

“And you’re so sure this was all my idea?” he asked mildly.

Crowley peeked at Aziraphale, whose frown was growing deeper with every word out of Raph’s mouth. Most excellent.

“Well, of course, it was. Aziraphale is too wise and virtuous to have considered such—”

“Enough,” Aziraphale said. “It _was_ my idea, thank you very much, or rather, Agnes’s, and furthermore, it is the only idea we have at the moment for how to stop the alliance from ending the world.”

Raph was frowning now. What fun.

“Crowley, do stop making that annoyingly smug face,” Aziraphale said. “It’s not as if you didn’t protest a fair amount while we were talking about it upstairs.”

True. But Angel Water-Wings didn’t need to know that.

“What makes you think that meeting Death will end the war? That doesn’t make any sense.”

Oh, to be that young and naive…

Aziraphale stiffened his posture even more than he usually did, causing him to seem taller. Crowley mentally ticked down the seconds to the inevitable Aziraphale ultimatum.

“Agnes’s prophecies have saved our lives several times already. We wouldn’t be standing here right now arguing about it if we hadn’t followed them.”

“I can keep you safe in the bookshop,” Raph said, trying a new tack. “I can’t guarantee—”

“I never asked you to be my personal guardian, Raphael. You chose that on your own. If you wish to try, I won’t prevent you, but you will simply have to go where I go. I will not be a prisoner in my own home.”

There it was. Classic Aziraphale. Crowley smiled again, this time with more than a little pride.

Raph seemed to cede the battle by sinking into a resentful gloom, muttering that the only prophecies he’d ever come across had gotten their followers killed. Which had a somewhat dampening effect on Crowley’s satisfaction. He did mostly agree with the pillock, after all. If he could lock Aziraphale in the bookshop and throw away the key, he would.

But Aziraphale being Aziraphale, the three immortals eventually found themselves trooping out to the Bentley, Raph having miracled himself a somewhat less ostentatiously bright suit, Aziraphale in his second-best coat, and Crowley as he ever was, all over black and ready to start some trouble.

The Bentley, for its part, did its best to unsettle Raph, playing first Death on Two Legs and then Spread Your Wings. _Spread your wings and fly away, fly away, far away. _Crowley patted the dash fondly. Good car.

They arrived at their destination fifteen minutes later to find a parking space, right in the front, miraculously open and waiting for them. Crowley maneuvered the car into it with precision and grace.

“Good, Lord,” Raph said as he got out of the backseat, smoothing his hair and jacket back into place. “Do you always drive that recklessly?”

“Only when I’m driving someone I dislike,” Crowley said.

“Crowley, behave yourself,” Aziraphale chided. To Raph, he said, “Yes. Always.”

The three walked into Queens bowling alley with absolutely no one remarking upon them at all. Everyone inside seemed supremely absorbed in their own goings-on, which was all the better in Crowley’s opinion. Though, it did also seem a bit odd. He was used to a good bit of attention just based on how he entered a room.

Further into the recesses of the bowling alley, they finally found their target. Death was dressed casually in denim and black, though his shirt seemed covered in points of radiant light, as if it contained stars that stayed fixed even as he moved.

“That’s him,” Crowley said, pointing.

They approached Death while he was setting up for another approach in his lane. He seemed to be bowling alone, thankfully. But before they reached him, Death spoke.

“I believe I’ve heard this one before—two angels and a demon walk into a bar... Remind me of the punchline?”

Death turned then, and though his face appeared typically human, there was something about it that shifted uncannily. Crowley’s skin prickled with dread, and it took quite a lot to unsettle a demon.

“Could we possibly retire to somewhere more private?” Aziraphale asked.

Suddenly, all surrounding noise stopped at once. Everyone else in the bowling hall had all been disappeared.

“How can I help you, gentlemen?”

When none of them answered immediately, Death continued.

“Speak! For by thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned.”

“Yes, well, you see,” Aziraphale said, stepping forward. “We are here to confront you.”

Then he looked around as if he expected someone or something to pop out of thin air. Crowley had to physically resist palming his face.

“Is that so? What about, if I may ask?” Death said.

“Well, that’s just it. We’re confronting you,” Aziraphale repeated, projecting his voice as if whatever he was expecting to happen simply hadn’t heard him the first time.

Again, silence fell as Aziraphale looked behind himself for some sort of result.

“Angel...”

“I would like to help you, but I will need a little more context,” Death added, a note of amusement in his dry voice.

“Look,” Crowley stepped in. “We’re trying to stop the alliance between Heaven and Hell. D’you have any pointers, any insider information, perhaps?”

“I come when Called. Aside from that, I do not meddle in political affairs.”

“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale muttered, as he pulled his notebook from the ether and flipped to the right page. “All Agnes said was that we needed to confront Death. There’s nothing else stated in the prophecy.”

“Give me that,” Crowley said, as he snatched the book away from Aziraphale. “The word _confront_ isn't some sort of abracadabra.”

“Well, why not? It isn’t as if she says what we’re confronting him about.”

“If you gentlemen don’t mind,” Death said, his dry tone turning desert. “I’d like to get back to my game.”

Crowley ran his finger down the page to the entry in question and read aloud.

“When earth falls from sky and sky falls to earth, the time has of certes come to confront the Spectre.”

As Crowley voiced the word _Spectre_, Death instantly dropped the bowling ball he had just retrieved from the ball return and fell to the ground convulsing. Lights flashed chaotically around them, and the ground rumbled beneath their feet.

“Oh, Heavens,” Aziraphale said, as Crowley and Raph jumped to the angel’s side.

As a group, they backed away slowly from the seizing Horseman.

After a moment, Death stilled to lifelessness on the floor. Then he rose again, slowly, to his feet. He moved strangely…as if he were unsure how to properly operate his limbs.

“Well, this is harder than it looks, isn’t it?” said a woman’s voice. It had an odd lilt to it, almost like an accent, though Crowley couldn’t place it.

“I-I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale said. “But are you quite all right?”

“‘All right’ is such a relative phrase, I find, but I am managing. This immortal body feels strange, of a surety. As if it were more cloud than matter.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Crowley said, more pointedly.

“Ah, yes. Ye are no doubt confused.”

“Oh, my Lord God Almighty,” Aziraphale breathed, his eyes widening with some kind of realization.

“Nice to finally meet thee in person, as it were, friend angels…and demon. I am Agnes Nutter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scripture that Death quotes is from Matthew 12:37 (King James Version).
> 
> Lyrics from Spread Your Wings, by Queen (obviously)


	17. Agnes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agnes reveals...not terribly much, tbh.

“…I am Agnes Nutter,” said not-Death as she tilted precariously in Death’s humanish body.

Aziraphale felt ill. How could any mortal, even a witch-mortal, possess anything, let alone an immortal? It had never been done in all the millennia of Aziraphale’s existence. It felt like…an intrusion, a perversion of the natural. Aziraphale’s stomach roiled at the thought.

“Uh-A-Agnes?” Raph said, his face as green as Aziraphale’s probably was.

“Ah, yes. Young Raphael. How art thou faring? Ecstatic at having joined him whom ye most admire, I imagine?”

“You know Agnes?” Aziraphale said to a suddenly blushing Raph. “How is that possible?” Turning to Agnes, he said, “How is any of this possible?”

“Anything is possible for those who try. I observed commanding dominion over another often enough to discover the sequence.”

“But possessing an immortal? I have never heard of such a thing. It has never happened.”

“It did not need to have happened for me to have foreseen it. But that is neither here nor there. We have much to discuss. Attend.”

“I’m still unclear how you know Raph?” Crowley broke in.

“To break the stranglehold that the Archangels have on Heaven and the Dukes have on Hell, one must pose other possibilities to spread like a healing potion through the blood. I have friends in many places who have enough broadness of mind to accept alternative approaches.”

“But it won’t be enough, Agnes,” Raph said. “There aren’t enough of us willing to go against Head Office.”

“The seeds sown will not produce fruit prior to the final battle, but rather will sprout shoots just after all is decided.”

“Does that mean we win?” Crowley asked.

“That is not Seeable, as it is a cross-point in time. I can See what comes after, but it is divided into two separate paths. Much the way that Armageddon sparked a divergence of paths. I could See both. I prepared the Further Prophecies in the hope that thou wouldst succeed in preventing the war, knowing that if thou wert unsuccessful, the world would be destroyed and the Further Prophecies would no longer exist to reach their destination. This is now true of the next, the final, battle between Existence and Nonexistence.”

“Meaning, that if we succeed in saving the world again, the rebel angels will be able to influence Heaven towards compassion?” Aziraphale asked.

“That is the idea,” Agnes said. “But nothing is a given, not even prophecy, in a universe that allows free will for all.”

“What can you tell us about the final battle?”

“Victory will come at great cost.”

“What cost exactly?” Crowley asked.

“High but affordable, depending upon how much one cares for the world. I cannot be more explicit. The Sight is capricious. It is very clear leading up to a cross-point, but it becomes foggier the closer one gets to it.”

“So we’re going in blind, then? Fabulous,” Crowley said, throwing up his hands.

“Well, what we need to know is what to do next,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“That is already explained in the prophecies. But I can tell ye what ye must avoid doing.”

“Avoid doing?”

“When thou performest miracles, thy position becomes obvious to the Higher and Lower Powers. The greater the number and significance of the miracles, the brighter the beacon. Ye must take care going forward to perform these wonders only in the fullness of necessity.”

Crowley spat a string of expletives that made even Aziraphale’s ears bleed, and he was used to it. He cast a glance at Raph to see the other angel actively glowering at Crowley.

“Crowley, dear, do you mind?”

“Yes, I very much mind,” Crowley growled.

“So, no miracles, then,” Aziraphale said, returning to the negative news at hand.

“Judicious miracles,” Agnes corrected. “Necessary to preserve life only. Though Raphael has more leeway than thou, Aziraphale or Crowley. As far as I am able to tell, Heaven does not know he is helping thee.”

“Understood.”

“My time grows short, and I must speak with the demon Crowley alone.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, startled. What could she need to say to Crowley that he could not hear? “All right. Raphael?” He gestured that the other angel precede him to the door of the bowling hall.

“Don’t go far, angel,” Crowley said before Aziraphale turned to follow.

“I won’t,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t be long.”

Crowley nodded curtly.

Then to Death’s personification, Aziraphale said, “Thank you, Agnes.”

“Thou art welcome, friend Aziraphale. Good fortune follow thee.”

As Aziraphale walked through the door, he felt more worried than he had before he’d entered. Victory at great cost? No miracles? No advice for how to actually win against the combined might of Heaven and Hell? And no Crowley next to him to make a well-timed wisecrack and relieve some of the pressure building just beneath Aziraphale’s breastbone.

“I will confess to feeling a bit shaken,” Raphael said, looking overwhelmed. “How are you holding up?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I cannot tell you. Armageddon was hard enough to fight. But this? Mortals possessing immortals…prophecies that may or may not foretell with any accuracy…our abilities curtailed to near uselessness.”

Raph nodded glumly, looking down. “I didn’t realize how…chaotic and frantic it was, saving the world. I guess I assumed that you knew what you were doing the entire time.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Lord, no. In fact, I doubt Crowley and I would have been at all successful had we been even remotely competent.”

Raph perked up a little at that. “So then, nothing going according to plan is essentially the same as everything going according to plan?”

“I suppose you can say that,” Aziraphale said. “When Crowley rejoins us, he will no doubt corroborate that assessment.”

But rather than continue to look comforted, Raph frowned. “Why do you let him call you that?”

“Hmm?”

“Crowley. Why do you let him call you ‘angel,’ as if the word were an epithet? It’s disrespectful.”

Aziraphale smiled softly. “Not everyone understands Crowley and me, at least not at first. Crowley is a demon, of course, but he Fell for different reasons than the others. He is not cruel...well, except to his enemies. And he’s not hubristic…okay, except when he is.” Aziraphale laughed at himself. “I’m doing a terrible job of explaining this.”

“He tempts people to do evil.”

“No, not real evil. He tempts people to follow their instincts, to exercise their free will to reach for their happiness.”

“Demons torture people.”

“Crowley more makes his own life difficult than anyone else’s.”

“He made a freeway system into a demonic sigil that lit the entire thing on fire during Armageddon.”

“But he did that before he thought Armageddon was going to actually happen. And he had to do _some_thing, or he would have run afoul of his Head Office long before he actually did. At the time, slightly altering the path of a road presented a way to impress his superiors without actually hurting anyone.”

“He’s still disrespectful to you.”

“He calls me ‘angel’ as an endearment. He’s saved my life multiple times at great risk to his own. He could have left at any time during Armageddon, but he didn’t because he wouldn’t leave me. He loves me, even if it doesn’t seem like it.”

“Demons…can’t love,” Raph said with a pitying expression, putting a conciliatory hand on Aziraphale’s arm.

Aziraphale laid his hand on top of Raph’s. “Six millennia among humans changes you. It’s changed _me_ immeasurably. And Crowley…he’s changed, too. Neither of us is as we were before. I’m not as good as I once was, any more than he is as evil.”

Raph’s expression turned contemplative for a moment. Then he seemed to suddenly recall that his hand was still on Aziraphale’s arm with Aziraphale’s hand pressing his. He blushed again, looking down.

Just then, Crowley emerged from the bowling hall and saw them.

“Ah, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, beaming at him and pulling away from Raph. “What did Agnes have to say?”

Crowley shot a glare at Raph as he drew Aziraphale several yards away from the other angel.

“I have to go to Tadfield,” Crowley said.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Well, I suppose we’ll need to take the Bentley, since we’re to avoid miracles for the moment.”

“No, not us, angel,” Crowley said. “Just me.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “But…bad things happen when we separate, remember?”

Crowley sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “S’was one of those things, I guess. You came out here, and I got conscripted for a side mission.”

“How long will you be gone?” Aziraphale’s stomach sank further with every word. He didn’t want Crowley out of his sight.

“I will come back as soon as I can. Stay at the bookshop. Don’t do anything more with the prophecies for now. And, much as I hate to say this, stay close to Water-Wings until I return.”

Then he brought Aziraphale’s hand up to his lips and kissed it tenderly.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Crowley added softly, as he let Aziraphale’s hand go.

“I won’t...” Aziraphale’s heart thumped painfully. “As long as you stay safe.”

“I’m untouchable, angel. Not even God Herself could catch the Bentley.”

Aziraphale smiled at the mental image of God chasing the vintage car up the M25, but then sobered again when he remembered he’d be left behind.

“Crowley, I… I…” But his heart was too full to continue.

“I know, angel,” Crowley said, stroking his jaw with his thumb.

Then he turned on his heel and headed for the Bentley. As he opened the door, however, he turned back, addressing Raph.

“Oi, Water-Wings. Aziraphale so much as breaks a nail, and I’ll pluck all your feathers to stuff a mattress. Got it?”

“I— What?”

But Crowley had already slammed the door and pulled the Bentley away from the curb.

Raph came over to stand next to Aziraphale.

“What now?” he asked.

Aziraphale thought about everything that still needed to be done, about how little they’d actually accomplished thus far in thwarting Heaven and Hell, about how they were, in many ways, back at square one. Then he said,

“Tell me, dear boy, have you ever eaten at a sushi restaurant?”

“No.”

Aziraphale linked his arm through Raph’s. “Well, then allow me to tempt you.”


	18. Spark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley gets a side mission.

Crowley watched Aziraphale accompany Raphael outside and felt a sharp tug somewhere north of his midsection. It wasn’t that he felt jealous exactly. More that he inexplicably wanted to rip Raph’s too-perfect head from his too-perfect body. Or better yet, take him down a peg or three by introducing him to the fine art of Falling. But neither would likely make Aziraphale terribly happy, so Crowley’d have to put up with the baby-faced cherub until whatever happened happened.

“All right, Agnes. What is this really about?”

Agnes-as-Death chuckled. “I suppose I was foolish to think I could pull the wool over thine eyes, friend Crowley.”

“Indeed,” Crowley said, taking a seat at the table with the scoring monitor. He gestured for her to continue.

“I did not bring thee here to tell thee to avoid miracles. Nor to tell thee what thou knowest already. ‘Twas immensely difficult to inhabit this vessel even for as short a time as I have. And I have further to go yet, if I am to be of use.”

“What do you mean?” Crowley asked, growing uneasy.

“I need thee to take me to my descendent, Anathema Device, in the Field of Tad.”

“That’s it? That’s easy. Get in the car, and we’ll be there in a jiff.”

“Thou art not understanding me. I cannot possess this body much longer. Death cuts his ties to it even as we speak. I must possess thy body.”

Crowley nearly fell out of his chair.

“_What?_”

“I do not intend to direct thy movements. Only _hitch a ride_, I believe is the phrase. With thy cooperation, I shall not need to struggle as fiercely to maintain my grip on this metaphysical plane.”

“And when we get there? Then what? You’ll possess her instead?”

“No. A mortal cannot possess another mortal, as an immortal cannot possess another immortal. Anathema should still have a pendulum I prepared for this purpose centuries ago. My consciousness can be contained on this plane and accessed through it.”

“I gotta say, Agnes, this is a lot of trouble to go to for a family reunion.”

“The fate of the world rests, in part, on witches. Witches who will need my help and guidance if we are to survive this, even if thou and thine angel are to survive it. I am asking for thine aid.”

Crowley felt more than a few heebie-jeebies about the idea, if he were being honest. He rubbed his arm to calm the gooseflesh.

“Why me? Is it because I am a demon?”

“In a way,” Agnes said. “As a mortal, I dare not possess an entity too overtly good, nor too irredeemably evil. It would endanger my equanimity, my metaphysical balance betwixt the two. There is not as much evil in Aziraphale as there is good in thee.”

“Well, that’s insulting,” Crowley said, aggrieved. “And if you can’t handle evil, then how did you inhabit Death?”

“Death is neither evil nor good. Death is neutral. It was not ideal, choosing Death as my vessel, but I would likely not have survived struggling against another metaphysical being long tied to its corporeal body.”

“Like me.”

“Of certes.”

“Well, why not have Anathema just give us the pendulum? Why go to the trouble of traveling to her?”

“I endeavored to find a way to send the pendulum to thee with the prophecies, but each avenue I considered failed, with the pendulum either in Heaven’s hands or destroyed entirely. Leaving the pendulum in Anathema’s care was the only option afforded me.”

Crowley rubbed his eyes. After this whole mess, he promised himself a long, hot bath and a nap of three hundred years or so, with Aziraphale wrapped inextricably around him so he’d know exactly where he was at all times, even in sleep.

“All right. Let’s do this,” he said, standing up and stretching. “Then we’ll get the angels and the Bentley and do a runner for Tadfield.”

“We will have to leave Aziraphale here, I am afraid. He is too important to the final encounter to risk on this journey.”

“What do you mean risk? Is driving to Tadfield risky?”

“There will be dangers there, and much of my Sight is obscured in Tadfield, due to the presence of the Antichrist. It is better for Aziraphale to stay here.”

Crowley groaned. “Can you guarantee he will remain completely unharmed if we leave him behind?”

“I can vouchsafe it inasmuch as his continued existence is true to my visions. Without him, thou returnst to him soon. With him, I cannot say if either of ye return.”

“All right,” Crowley capitulated, finally. The whole point in staying together, after all, was to keep each other out of trouble. If it were better not to bring the angel, then so be it.

“We are agreed, then. Turn, friend Crowley, and face me.”

Crowley obeyed, standing in front of Death’s body and gazing into its uncanny face. He thought, for a moment, that deep in Death’s eyes, he could see the spark that was Agnes. And as soon as he thought that, he felt arrested, unable to move, as the spark grew both larger and more diffuse, seeping into his own eyes and curling up along the edge of one side of his brain.

Suddenly, Crowley had use of his limbs again, and he nearly fell from lack of balance. He swallowed hard, shaking his head, just as Death’s body collapsed to the bowling alley floor in front of him. Then the body became just as insubstantial as Agnes had been and diffused into the air like smoke from an extinguished fire.

“Are you in there, Agnes?” Crowley asked.

He felt more than heard a confirmation, which was good enough for him. So, he took a steadying breath and headed out after Aziraphale.

When he pulled open the door, he saw Aziraphale standing entirely too close to the other angel, his hand covering Raph’s where Raph’s rested on Aziraphale’s arm. Surprisingly, the resulting spike of jealousy was negligible. Likely, the impending separation eclipsed all other concerns in Crowley’s mind. Also, he was certain Aziraphale was completely oblivious to Raph’s obvious regard for him. Of all people, Crowley knew exactly how long it took the angel to catch on to matters of the heart.

He drew Aziraphale aside and filled him in on the particulars. Watching the angel’s face fall twinged a bit, but there was nothing for it. He had to leave, and he wouldn’t put Aziraphale in harm’s way if he could help it.

So with a fervent promise to his angel and a casual threat to the cherub, he climbed into the Bentley and sped off for Tadfield.

As he drove, he felt Agnes’s questioning presence in his mind. He couldn’t tell what the question was, but he felt her curiosity. He wondered briefly why she couldn’t just communicate thoughts to him, but figured she was simply trying to keep her word that she wouldn’t take him over completely. Perhaps a mortal possessing an immortal was an all-or-nothing thing.

In any case, he could hazard a guess at what she was wondering. It was likely the same thing he was wondering himself. Victory at great cost. High but affordable, depending on how much one loved the world. He loved the world, but he loved Aziraphale more. And if it came down to it, he would be the one paying the price to save it. Not Aziraphale. For whatever that was worth.

As they skidded around a bend, the Bentley belted out,

_I'll face it with a grin—I’m never giving in. On with the show!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from The Show Must Go On, by Queen (I know you're shocked)


	19. Sushi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sushi dinner stakeout turns disastrous.

“When you said ‘eat at a sushi restaurant,’ this is not what I had in mind,” Raph said, as he awkwardly pinched a piece of sashimi with his chopsticks.

“Well, we’re eating, aren’t we?” Aziraphale said, dividing his attention between his plate, Raph, and the group of angels congregating in the sacristy of the church next door. He could just make them out through the window he was sitting next to. Better yet, he could hear every word they were saying.

“How did you even know they’d be here?”

“A hunch. I met Gabriel there a handful of times in the twentieth. And one thing you’ll learn about Gabriel is that he is unfailingly…consistent.” Which was the nicest way Aziraphale could think of to say boring and unimaginative.

“I know I don’t have much leverage with you. We’ve only just met, and you don’t fully trust me.”

“I trust you,” Aziraphale disagreed. “I believe you are working with us.”

“I mean that you don’t trust my instincts or advice. But I strongly object to this eavesdropping scheme. We have a lot to lose and not much to gain.”

Aziraphale considered this while chewing another piece of norimaki from his own plate. Based on the number and stations of the angels attending the meeting, he’d already surmised that some sort of attack was imminent. On whom or what remained unknown, as the archangel leading the tactical—who was no one he knew, thankfully—had not been specific. But the _when_ was clear. The when was tonight. They were mobilizing, and he and Raph were the only ones who knew about it.

“Staying on the sidelines during an apocalypse is not generally my strong suit, I’m afraid. I have too much at stake to leave well enough alone.” Then he signaled to the chef. “Check, please, dear. Thank you.”

“But didn’t you tell Crowley you were going back to the bookshop?”

Aziraphale pulled a rarely used wallet from his trousers’ pocket. He kept it on him and filled with a small amount of cash in the event that miracling money would be too obviously observed by humans. He took out a few crisp bills, hoping the denominations hadn’t changed since the last time he’d used them.

“What Crowley doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Aziraphale answered, laying the bills on the table.

“It will, if it gets you discorporated or captured. Or worse, destroyed altogether.”

Aziraphale stood, straightening his coat. He really missed his favorite. This one was slightly too tight in the shoulders.

“Then I suppose you will just have to prevent that from happening.”

Raph stood as well, sighing heavily. He really was quite an adept Crowley-understudy. It was a pity Crowley seemed to dislike him so much.

“How could you even hear what they were saying? The window was closed.”

“I told you. Gabriel and I used to meet in the sacristy from time to time so that I could give him my progress reports. The sacristy has been layered with protective miracles to circumvent human eavesdroppers. However, as a regular, I was granted license to the room, which means I can hear everything that goes on in there if I’m within a few feet of it. Apparently, Gabriel has forgotten about that, or doubtless he would have, by now, changed the locks, as it were.”

“Then what were they saying?”

“Did you recognize any of them?” Aziraphale asked instead of answering.

“One or two. No one on our side, unfortunately.”

“I don’t know where or what they are planning, but whatever it is, it’s happening tonight. We need to follow them.”

Raph sighed again. “Of course, we do.”

Aziraphale gestured for Raph to precede him through the door, and Raph obliged, his suit shifting from off-white to a dark brown with cream accents and a fedora as he crossed the threshold. Aziraphale did not deem it “necessary for preserving life” to miracle his own clothes, so he looked much the same exiting as he did entering. Raph handed Aziraphale his hat. Aziraphale nodded his thanks and donned the hat, swiping the brim with an appreciative finger. Raph did have excellent taste.

The two angels followed at a discreet distance, Aziraphale relaying to Raph the little he’d heard the archangel say. As the group of angels reached the first major intersection, though, they dispersed, heading in disparate directions.

“Maybe we should split up,” Aziraphale suggested.

“No. Absolutely not,” Raph responded. “I am not budging on this.”

“All right. Let’s stay with the archangel, then.”

They followed their mark through the streets of London, losing her occasionally in the press of passersby. Nevertheless, they managed to keep up enough to trace her to Brompton Cemetery, where she stopped, turned, and seemed to be waiting for somebody.

“Aziraphale of the Eastern Gate,” she called out, finally. “I know you are there. Come out and face me.”

“Bugger,” Aziraphale said under his breath from where he and Raph were hiding behind a tree. Then to Raph, he said, “Stay here. She mustn’t know you’ve defected.”

“Are you mad? You can’t go out there. It’s probably a trap.”

“I must do. She knows I am here, and beyond that, we need more information.”

Before Raph could protest further, Aziraphale stepped out into the moonlight.

“I’m here,” he said, waving stupidly. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure. And you are?”

“Haniel, Archangel of Exultation to the Almighty. Harbor love for none above Her, lest ye be cast into Outer Darkness.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale said, smiling politely. “Catchy tagline.”

“Look upon this, Fallen One—”

“I say,” Aziraphale said, affronted. “I am not Fallen.”

“—and behold one of the Seven Vials of Devastation.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This is the first. The curse of putrid flesh be upon this earth from this night until its destruction. Amen.”

She held up a thick glass tube with a green vapor swirling inside. She uncorked the top and poured the vapor into the air. Rather than sink to the ground or evaporate, the green smoke expanded, spilling out into the night over the gravestones around them.

At first, nothing happened. But then a stench of dead flesh arose from the ground, causing Aziraphale to nearly wretch. He covered his nose and mouth and backed slowly away. Haniel, for her part, tilted her head back and shot up into the sky, disappearing with a crack of thunder.

Then the dead began to rise.

“Aziraphale!” Raph shouted as he ran up to him, wielding a suspiciously familiar sword as well as a blindingly white shield.

Raph tossed the sword to Aziraphale who barely caught it by the hilt rather than the burning blade. Even then, he bobbled it badly and almost dropped it on the corpse reaching for his throat.

“Oh, dear,” he said, grabbing the flaming thing awkwardly and swiping at the pustulant body in front of him. “Oh, dear!” he said again, as the corpse took hold of the business end of the sword and pulled.

But before it could steal the blade from Aziraphale’s grip, the flames raced up the arm and set the rest of the thing ablaze. It collapsed into a fetid, burning pile without a sound.

“More coming! On your left!”

“Fall back!” Aziraphale said. “We need to get back to the bookshop and regroup!”

He cut down another corpse, this time with more remembered skill. He was beyond rusty, to be sure, but he had been trained to use the sword after all. It had been six thousand years since, when he was assigned the blade in the first place, but under the pressure of a fraught moment, his muscle-memory was returning with a vengeance.

He tilted his head to crack his neck, rolled his shoulders a couple times, and then assumed a fighting stance. A cluster of corpses rushed him, but they were slow and bumbling. He evaded them easily, hacking off limbs and heads wherever he could. Bashing them to pieces did little good on its own, but the holy fire finished them right off.

After a few minutes of wild swinging, Raph called him to attention once again.

“We have to _move_! There are more coming from the north. It’s not just this graveyard!”

“Damn, damn, double-damn!” Aziraphale said, as he extricated himself from engaging the enemy, and fled with Raph back in the direction of Soho. “We need Crowley. He’ll know what to do!”

And as he said it, he prayed to God and every saint he could think of that it was true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The seven vials comes from Revelations 16:1-21, though of course, I've put my own spin on it. ;-)


	20. Glasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tracks down the Tadfield bunch while being very Crowley about it.

The journey to Tadfield was quick and perfunctory, no traffic or rings of fiery death or pedestrians gumming up the works. But when he reached the outskirts of the village, it was an entirely different story.

Lightning split trees and ignited buildings. Blood ran in rivulets through streets. Signs were bent askew. And as he progressed further into the village, the destruction only worsened. Houses were reduced to giant piles of matchsticks, roads were torn open as if pushed up from underneath, cars were overturned, power was out all over town, and fires rampaged through anything left standing.

But no people. Where were all the people?

“What the fuck?” Crowley muttered as he steered the Bentley through the wreckage.

He pulled his mobile out of his pocket to call Aziraphale, but he had no signal. The cell towers must have been affected by whatever was happening in the village.

Crowley swore profusely and colorfully as he picked up speed, heading for bicycle-girl’s cottage. But at that thought, he felt Agnes’s consciousness turn abruptly negative, as if she were telling him no. But if not the cottage, then where?

“You’re going to have to direct me, Agnes. I don’t know Tadfield all that well.”

As he passed various turning points, he could feel Agnes go hot and cold, directing him where to turn. And after a minute or two, he realized he recognized the route. She was leading him to Tadfield Airbase. So he sped up the hill, bypassing the old burned-down convent, and breaking through the tree-line just in time to see a cohort of demons launching an attack on the security fence. Which made little sense, given that they could pop in and out of wherever they wanted with a snap of their fingers. Why bother with a frontal assault?

More to the point, how was Crowley going to get through, not just the demons’ frontline, but also the contingent of army humans defending the base from inside the fence?

He felt a nudge from Agnes, and he u-turned the Bentley to find another way in. A few minutes later, Agnes exploded in excitement at the corner of his brain, battering at him to pay attention. He winced. He was definitely going have a raging headache after this.

He looked to the side to see a blue contraption that was either a death trap or the most pathetic excuse for a car he’d ever seen. It was parked alongside the road, nose-first in a ditch, with the words Dick Turbin emblazoned on the back. He pulled the Bentley next to it and got out.

“What am I doing here, Agnes?” he said, looking around for some kind of explanation.

He found it not long after—a break in the same security fence surrounding the airbase. He made use of it, pausing long enough to cover it with bracken in case anyone else decided to investigate a couple of abandoned cars.

He hadn’t walked far when he ran into some kind of invisible barrier. Puzzled, he reached out and touched the see-through wall, wondering if it was the same sort of thing that blocked his use of the Heaven-escalator. This wall, however, didn’t stun him or throw him back when he touched it.

Instead, his hand fell suddenly forward through the barrier, as if the barrier had ceased to be. He stepped through, and with a slight hum, all the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He didn’t bother to test it, but he’d put money on the barrier having resealed itself after he entered. Which likely meant Anathema was behind the barrier and also explained why the demons couldn’t just pop in wherever they wanted.

Crowley walked another interminable number of minutes until he finally arrived at the hangar where Armageddon-the-first went down. He knocked on the door.

“Oi, bicycle-girl! Open up.”

Newt opened the metal door, a look of relief a mile long on his face.

“Thank God you’re here.” Then he looked around in confusion. “Where’s Aziraphale?”

“London,” Crowley answered as he pushed past Newt and into the hangar to see groups of worried humans congregating around tables holding completely dark computers and old-fashioned oil lamps. “What the actual fuck is going on?”

“The power went out. Spiders and zombies everywhere. Then the demons attacked. The Them rounded up as many villagers as they could, and we brought them all here when the fires started. Anathema erected the barrier with her magic, but her energy is fading fast. We need help.”

“Did you try calling for reinforcements?”

“No signals are getting in or out of Tadfield. Something’s blocking us.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have touched a cell tower by chance, Computer Killer?”

“No, of course not,” Newt said, aggravated. “Can you help us or not?”

“No, I can’t help you,” Crowley said, bluntly. “But I’ve brought somebody with me who may be able to. Take me to bicycle-girl.”

Newt led him to a separate room, a broom-closet, really, where Anathema had sealed herself off to concentrate on maintaining the barrier.

“Crowley’s here,” Newt said, interrupting her as gently as possible. “He says he knows someone who can help.”

Anathema’s eyes popped open. She looked beyond exhausted, and Crowley, for the first time, found himself worrying about her.

She threw herself into Crowley’s arms, and he instinctively caught her, though if people were going to go round flinging themselves at him regularly, he really needed to rethink his life choices.

She pulled back after a few seconds, thank Satan, and righted her glasses.

“Where’s Aziraphale?” she asked anxiously.

“London,” Crowley repeated. “I brought somebody else to help, but I’m going to need your pendulum.”

“My…pendulum?”

“Quickly, please. I need to get back to London as soon as possible.”

Anathema dug her pendulum out of her nearby bag and handed it to him. “How will a pendulum help us fight off the army of demons trying to carry us all to Hell?”

“I don’t know. Let’s try it and find out.”

Crowley yanked off his glasses and held up the pendulum in front of his face as Newt and Anathema watched. He waited for some sort of direction from Agnes, but none was immediately forthcoming.

“Any day now, Agnes,” he muttered to himself as he stared at the metal sphere.

“Wait. Did you say Agnes?” Anathema asked.

Before he could confirm, a white mist coalesced in front of his eyes, and he could feel Agnes’s presence leaving his body. Then the mist seemed to be sucked into the crevices making up the design of the pendulum. The crevices glowed briefly white before dulling into a slight glow around the orb.

Crowley shook himself, feeling a little lightheaded, and handed the pendulum back to Anathema. It was weird to be alone again. He almost missed the old dame. But time was marching on, and every minute he was away from Aziraphale was a minute he could never get back, so.

He pointed at the pendulum, and said, “Bicycle-girl, meet Agnes Nutter. Agnes Nutter, your great-great-whatever granddaughter, bicycle-girl. Ta.”

And then he turned on his heel to leave. Unfortunately, that’s when the Them arrived.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Adam said, though the inflection was more of a question than a command.

“Things to do, worlds to save. Sorry, kid.”

“But what about us?” the girl—Pepper?—said.

He looked at them helplessly. It was the boy with the glasses that finally did him in. He’d always been soft for kids with glasses.

Crowley groaned. “Oh, all _right_. I’ll take you lot to London with me, but you’ll have to sit on laps. And the Bentley will _not_ be pleased if you get it sticky.”

“We’re not leaving without our parents,” said the other boy, not Adam but without the glasses.

“You have to. I can’t take everybody.”

“Then think of something else,” Anathema said, steel in her tone. “The second Adam leaves, my spell stops working, and we’ll be overrun.”

“Obviously, I meant for you and witchfinder to come, too,” Crowley said. “I’m no babysitter.”

“We’re not going without our parents!”

“Look, we’re not leaving them all here to die at the hands of demons, so think. Of. Something. Else.”

Crowley threw his hands up. “Fine! Fine. You lot come with me. Outside where the demons can see you. You’re obviously who they’re after.”

“What are you going to do?”

“If you want them to leave, you have to take away the thing they want—you. So we’re going to go out there, and all of us disappear in front of their very eyes so that they know for a fact you’re not here anymore. Then they’ll leave.”

Crowley turned once more to go, but Anathema grabbed his arm.

“They’re not just going to leave once they lose what they’re after. They’ll take revenge on everyone left, and you know it.”

Crowley sighed heavily. “You’re probably right. Which is why it’s lucky I have a plan for that, too. Are you coming?”


	21. Inexplicable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out a number of surprises about Raph.

“Behind you!” Aziraphale shouted to Raph just before a corpse closed its fleshless arms around him. Raph spun and ducked, cutting the corpse off at the knees with some other sword he’d been carrying around with him without Aziraphale’s notice.

“Shit, shit!” Raphael swore, making Aziraphale smile despite their dire situation. He was learning far faster than Aziraphale had.

“‘Ware the spiders!” Aziraphale called out as he burned another corpse to cinders.

“Why spiders? Why?” Raphael yelled as he hopped from one foot to another to avoid the river of spiders flowing just under his feet.

“Lucky they’re leaving us be so far. Must not have brains enough—” Aziraphale paused to skewer a smaller corpse that was attempting to chew his leg. “—to distinguish between us and other angels.”

“We’ll never make it back to the bookshop at this rate,” Raph said, breathless with exertion.

“Have faith, Raph! We’ll get there. Let’s make a break for it.”

They ran, stumbling through the utter darkness of the complete power outage plaguing London, relying on their angel sight to battle the dead.

“Holy Mother of God,” Raphael said as they passed the Venus Fountain. “It’s pouring blood.”

“Must be another of Haniel’s vials, then. Along with power outage, spiders, and zombies.”

“What’s a ‘zombie’?”

“Ah, yes. Colloquial term for walking corpses, dear.”

“How many vials are there?”

At that moment, a horrible, head-splitting sound reverberated through the city, like a gong from Hell itself. Both angels clapped their hands over their ears. The sound abated after a minute or two, leaving human screaming in its wake.

“That’s five, I be—”

Lightning flashed in front of them, striking a tree on the other side of the road from their position. Followed by another further off, and another across the river.

“Make that six.”

“We can’t take much more of this. Is it just London, or…?”

“Doubtful. Head Office doesn’t do things halfway. Come along—there’s a bus stop three blocks from here. We may have better luck in a motor vehicle conveyance than on foot.”

They struggled their way to the bus stop, having to hide in a store entryway only once or twice. The bus stop itself was sheltered, providing a narrow opening easy enough to defend, if necessary. But the dead seemed to have moved on, the spiders avoided them anyway, and the wretched din had subsided for the moment.

Aziraphale leaned heavily against the plexiglass, breathing hard. Then he sank to the bench, wiping his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. Raph stood at the entrance, sword raised, scanning the surrounds for incoming threats, while a legion of spiders filed past. Sounds of melee, gunshots and shouting, reverberated in the distance, as humans fought their own pitched battles. Aziraphale prayed that most of them had holed up in buildings to await the coming dawn.

“Raph, come sit. You need a breather. We both do.”

“We’re not out of danger, yet.”

“Raph. Sit.”

Raph obeyed with a sigh, dropping his sword long enough to rub his face with his hands. “This protection thing is going to kill me.”

Aziraphale put a hand on Raph’s arm, causing Raph to startle, no doubt from all the stress of running for their lives.

“You’re doing well, Raph. We’re both still here, and as long as we are, we can keep the world alive.”

“It just feels so impossible. Especially with the however-many plagues we’re dealing with now.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “You know, the last time we saved the world, Crowley and I arrived at Armageddon separately, him in a car completely on fire, me in someone else’s body entirely. For my money, we’re still ahead of that, at least.”

“I know. I watched what happened. From a distance, but I watched. At the time, I never thought I could get involved. That I could be of use,” he said, apologetically.

“I understand that feeling. I’ve been subject to it myself since the beginning. Or rather, I subjected myself to it. It took me unbearably long to realize that I could choose something else. In that way, you are ahead, as well.”

“Well, you made it possible. Your rebellion made it clear that some rebellions are worthy, that differences of opinion are not inherently evil. And I…”

Aziraphale waited for Raph to finish the thought, but after a moment, it became clear he wasn’t going to.

“I’ve never thanked you for helping me,” Aziraphale said, touching Raph’s arm again. Notably, the other angel didn’t startle this time. “Thank you.”

“I…didn’t do it entirely for selfless reasons,” Raph admitted quietly.

“Oh, well, that’s all right,” Aziraphale said. “We all have a personal agenda, after all, and it would be—”

“I’m in love with you.”

Aziraphale froze, somewhat panicked, thinking he’d misunderstood or somehow heard wrong. He must have heard wrong, surely.

“I know, it’s odd,” Raph continued, “given that we’d never officially met before this morning. I just. I just am.”

Aziraphale blinked, nonplussed. He still felt as though he’d missed some crucial bit of information along the way.

“I don’t… Forgive me, but I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“This is going to sound terrible, but…I have been watching you for hundreds of years.”

“What? Why?”

“I used to heal people. That was my specialty, back in the beginning. But then I was reassigned. To communications. Not sure why, really. But somehow I ended up in charge of the Miracle Monitoring division.”

“You’ve been monitoring my miracles?” Aziraphale said, still panicked, but now for a wholly different reason.

“Yes, but let me tell you why.”

“Beyond the fact that Heaven is a lions’ den of micromanagers, you mean?”

Raph wouldn’t quite meet his eyes as he said, “By the seventeenth century, I had worked my way up to director level. I was mostly just pushing paper and managing people who did the actual work, by that point. Then one day, Agnes showed up in my office.”

“She just appeared?”

“I thought she was an angel at first, though wearing odd clothes. Human souls don’t just go wandering around on their own, usually.”

“No, not usually.”

“In any case, she told me about you. She explained that I needed to watch you carefully, for reasons that would eventually become clear, and then she popped out again. But she’d said just enough to pique my curiosity, so I did as she requested. I watched you for a couple of decades. Not all the time, obviously. On and off, when I was free. And you know what I saw?”

“I am afraid to speculate.”

“I saw kindness. Compassion as it could be, rather than the detached compassion-as-duty I was used to. But I also saw you meeting occasionally with a noxious demon, and actually enjoying the time you spent with him. And I saw you using your angelic powers to both bless and tempt people.”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said, embarrassed.

“At first, when I saw you misusing your powers, I was livid. I almost recalled you immediately. But then Agnes returned and explained about her visions, about you and Crowley and Armageddon, about how things _could_ be. And…she made a believer out of me.”

“Did anyone else know about this?”

“No. I took care to hide it from Head Office. I wanted to see how it would play out.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“I did try to warn you once.”

“Oh?”

“I sent you a reprimand for using too many—”

“—frivolous miracles? That was you?”

“Yes,” Raph said, tensing and tightening his grip around the hilt of his sword as a swarm of the dead shambled past. But they seemed not to notice the angels in the bus-stop shelter. “My team was starting to notice that dispatches kept disappearing. I wanted to at least slow you down a bit, so you wouldn’t be found out.”

“That was…very kind of you.”

“I didn’t realize how much it was affecting me—watching you, I mean—until Agnes returned the last time. She told me that the Antichrist had been born and that Armageddon was coming. I was happy at first, as we’d been instructed to be by Head Office. I thought I would finally have an opportunity to meet you. But then I saw you dressed as that ridiculous gardener, striving against all that we’d been taught, in order to _save_ the Antichrist, of all beings—and through him, all humanity. It made me rethink…everything.”

“Raph.”

“And then you in that magicians outfit, miracling a dove back to life. When I saw that, I felt almost a physical blow. I knew instantly how lost I was. I stopped breathing for a full minute, and I’m not sure I’ve fully caught my breath since.”

“I…I don’t know what to say.” Aziraphale was both hot and cold all over. He didn’t feel that way about Raph. At all. He couldn’t, because his heart belonged entirely, top to bottom and in all directions, to Crowley.

“You don’t need to say anything,” Raph said, sounding dejected. “I know you love him.”

“I do. You are right,” Aziraphale said, half-regretfully. If there hadn’t been a Crowley, Aziraphale could possibly have fallen for Raph. Eventually. After a couple of centuries, at least. And to have not only the approval but _love_ of another Heavenly being was both humbling and exhilarating. Aziraphale had given up ever having either from any of his people.

“I can’t pretend I understand why you would love a demon, especially him. He’s so…Crowley.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Well spotted. And yes, it is inexplicable. Live down here a few more millennia, and perhaps it will become a tad more clear.”

Raph sighed heavily and leaned back against the plexiglass, looking up to the ceiling. Aziraphale could see the emotional pain in every line of his slumped body and regretted that he was the source of it. He had no choice, of course, but he regretted it all the same.

“You know,” Aziraphale said. “It may not be exactly the way you want, but I do love you. Over the course of a single day, you have become part of our family.”

“What do you mean, family?”

“You’ll see,” Aziraphale said, smiling.

At that moment, Aziraphale saw headlights approaching.

“Ah, here we are. Finally.”

Together they watched as the bus crawled closer to the stop, then swerved out wide into the street and back again, running up the curb and over a mailbox before returning to the proper lane. As it rolled past without stopping, they saw through the bus windows a clutch of corpses knocking into each other and falling down with one of their number behind the wheel.

“On second thought,” Aziraphale said, “perhaps walking is the better option.”


	22. Compromises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley makes it out of the frying pan only to end up back in the fire.

Anathema frowned at Crowley, but followed in his wake as he stalked back through the hangar and out through the door to the pavement. The sun had just risen and mist hugged the ground, lending an air of portent to their entrance.

The hordes of Hell roared at seeing Crowley, a demon, leading the very pack of humans the demons had come to fetch-kill-whatever. But before they could get too riled up, Crowley broke away from the humans and strode past the soldiers to the inside of the fence.

“I demand to speak to the Duke in charge!” he shouted, hoping like Hell it was Hastur.

But, of course, Crowley’s luck completely sucked, so some unknown tool Crowley had never set eyes on before—riding an _alligator,_ of all bloody things—approached the fence.

“I am Duke Agares of the East. You must be Crowley.”

The way he said _Crowley_ did not bode well.

“Never mind,” Crowley said, crossing his arms as if in disdain. “I want to speak to Hastur.”

“Hastur’s not bloody here right now, is he?”

Well, fuck. Thinking on his feet was not something Crowley particularly enjoyed. Nevertheless, he suddenly recalled his earlier argument with Aziraphale _this is not a game of spy versus spy!_ Hmm…but maybe it could be…

“Okay, _fine_,” Crowley said, warming to his new idea. “Look. I’m a double-agent, all right? Hastur is my handler.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re a traitor.”

“I was a traitor, but then I flipped sides again. Ask Hastur, he’ll confirm it. He was the one who spirited me out of Hell a few days ago.”

“If what you’re saying is true, maybe Hastur is a traitor as well.”

“No, no, no. Look. See those people over there?” Crowley pointed to bicycle-girl and the rest. “They’re who you lot are after, right? Well, they trust me. But I am on your side now, so all I want to do is turn them over to you. Lord Beelzebub would give you a medal if you brought them back, I’m sure of it. And wouldn’t that be a feather in your cap?”

“Might do,” the Agares acknowledged. “But what’s to stop you from taking them to Beelzebub yourself and reaping all the credit.”

“I can’t go back to Hell with them or I’d blow my cover. I have to turn them over to you.” Crowley paused for dramatic effect. “Or I could find another demon who’d be willing…”

Agares sucked in a breath, looking suspiciously at the other demons around him, as if they were about to steal his candy.

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

“Excellent. Here’s the plan. I told the humans I’d get them safely back to London, but instead, I’m going to take them to Tadfield town square. Have your demon horde in position when we get there, and you can take them and sack the village. Sound good?”

“We’ve already sacked the village.”

“Well, it’s a big village. Are you sure you sacked all of it?”

“Pretty sure.”

“You might just check again in case. Wouldn’t want to leave it half done, am I right?”

Agares shrugged in noncommittal agreement.

“All right. I’ll meet you in Tadfield Square in five minutes—give you time to get your demons in place.”

Agares nodded and turned his alligator away from the fence line. Crowley retreated as well, but stopped at the nearest army officer for a word.

“I’m taking this lot with me," he said, gesturing to Anathema and the others. "But you have to get the rest of the people out of here before the demons come back.”

“Come back? Where are they—?”

But before the officer finished the question, the demons started popping out of space in groups, leaving a rush of air behind them.

“You have trucks? Jeeps? A back way out?” Crowley said again.

“Affirmative. We can take them down the other side of the hill to Skirmett.”

“Do it now.”

The officer nodded without protest and waved to his nearest soldiers to move out. Crowley thought it a good sign and moved back to Anathema, Newt, and the Them.

“Ready?”

“What’s happening? Why are the demons leaving?” Anathema asked.

“No time for that now. The army people are taking the Tadfield people to Skirmett.”

“All right. We can go with them,” Anathema said. “Thanks, Crowley.”

But Aziraphale’s words rang in Crowley’s ears, and he couldn’t ignore them. Not when he knew what was coming. So it was his turn to grab bicycle-girl’s arm.

“No, you can’t. You’d just put them all in danger again. Cause another seige. You have to come with me to London.”

Crowley waited for the expected _but what about our parents_ from the children, but interestingly, not a one of them said it. They looked at him with grave faces that _understood_ their predicament, despite being so very young.

“Dog’s coming, though,” Adam said, and his tone brooked no argument, so Crowley made none.

“Wait,” Anathema said, her attention turning to the pendulum in her hands. “I can hear Agnes in my head.” She paused to listen before speaking again. “She says something about not doing miracles?”

“They already know where I am, Agnes,” Crowley said directly to the pendulum. “We’ve got to get a wiggle on if we’re going to get out of here before the demons realize I’ve fooled them.”

Wait…_wiggle on_? Ugh, what was Aziraphale doing to him?

Anathema listened for a moment, and then nodded at Crowley.

“Hold each other’s hands. Adam, grab Dog. All right, here we go. Three, two...”

And then they were suddenly crammed into the bookshop sitting room. The children nearly fell over each other as Dog jumped down to bark at the strange new environment.

“Angel?” Crowley called out, yanking off his glasses. But he already knew. He could already _feel_ it.

The bookshop was damnably empty.

Agnes had lied to him. She’d lied to him to get him to rescue her witch progeny. Of course, she had. Or at the very least, she’d twisted the truth to serve her own purposes. And now he was stuck babysitting the humans from whatever the Hell was going on outside and not able to run off to find Aziraphale himself.

Fury, hot and vengeful coursed through his veins. Fury at Agnes, but also at himself for _falling for it_. But before he could rage at that thrice-damned metal sphere about it, the doors to the bookshop burst open from the force of a brutal wind.

The humans huddled together, Dog barking his fool head off, and in stepped Gabriel, his wings spread, backed by a troop of more than twenty angel soldiers. No sword, though—well, not the fiery kind, anyway.

Without thinking, Crowley leapt between the angels and the humans, hands aflame. Dog joined him, some small part of his small-dog brain remembering his Hellhound roots. Crowley could almost see the outline of the massive Hellbeast shimmering in the air around him.

“We’re closed,” Crowley hissed at the intruding angels.

“Demon Crowley,” Gabriel said, smiling smugly. “How precipitous that we find you on the other end of the miracle we just traced. It is, in fact, you we have been searching for.”

“Congratulations, you found me. Now, piss off!”

“Oh, no, no, no, you see…” Gabriel tucked his wings to better maneuver through the cluttered bookshop. “…it turns out that there is a certain valuable collection we’ve come into the possession of that, as fate would have it, only _you_ can read.”

“There is nothing on this plane of existence, or any other, that could convince me to help you.”

Gabriel circled lazily to the side, giving Crowley a wide berth.

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong. I believe you’ve gone soft, Crowley. Soft, say, for a particular angel. An angel that, were we to have him in our custody, you would do anything in your power to prevent coming to harm.”

“He’s not here. You don’t have him. And don’t even try to convince me otherwise.”

“You are correct, unfortunately. You see? I am not lying. I’m an angel. I don’t lie. Not even to you. You can trust that everything I say is one-hundred-percent true.” Gabriel stopped, studying Dog as if he were a particular curiosity.

“I’m not going to tell you again, Gabriel. Get. Out.”

“Or what?”

Crowley thought quickly. If Raph had been right about the contingent of angels in their camp knowing when someone with malicious intent crossed the threshold, then maybe help was on the way.

“Or I unleash our secret weapon.”

Gabriel raised a disbelieving eyebrow at him. “I hope you are not referring to this pathetic excuse for a canine.”

“Oi!” Adam said. “Crowley told you to piss off.”

Gabriel reacted in faux surprise. “Why, is this...is this the Antichrist? I am, frankly, shocked that you are still alive.”

Gabriel took a few steps in Adam’s direction, and Crowley made the profound mistake of growling and lunging to intercept Gabriel before he could get to the boy.

“Ahhh, see?” Gabriel said, pleased. “That wasn’t so hard.”

Then the wretched angel snapped his fingers, and Adam appeared in his hold, dangling from his jumper where Gabriel held him up off the floor with a sword to his throat.

“Looks like Aziraphale is not the only one you’ve grown soft for. If you want to keep this boy healthy, hale, and whole, you will come with us with no more fuss and translate those prophecies. Do we have a deal?”

Damn, fuck, fuck, fucking Hell on a stick.

“Let him go, and I’ll come with you,” Crowley spat, as he extinguished his fists and relaxed his stance.

“Oh, that’s not the deal. We need the boy for leverage. The deal is that you come with us now, and we won’t kill everyone else in this room.”

Crowley searched Gabriel’s face for any sign of bluff. If anyone was adept at detecting deception, it was Crowley, and, unfortunately, he sensed not a drop of it in Gabriel. Besides, he knew from personal experience that Gabriel was cruel enough—and deluded enough—to do exactly as he said.

So Crowley did the only thing he could. He sank to his knees and held out his hands, palms up.

“Crowley, no!” Anathema said behind him. But he couldn’t listen to her. Too much was at stake. Too much was always at stake.

One of the soldier angels muscled forward and miracled manacles on Crowley’s wrists, a length of holy chain connecting them to the angel who’d bound him. He felt the dampening of his powers like a straitjacket.

“Get up, demon,” Gabriel said. “It’s time to be useful for once.”

“No,” Anathema said again, scuffling with Newt to try to stop the abduction.

“Just leave it, Anathema,” Crowley said. “And if you see him, tell him to stay away.”

Anathema’s face betrayed her worry, but she nodded.

“How touching. Now shut the fuck up.”

And with that, Crowley, Adam, and all the angels popped out of existence.


	23. Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Raph continue to battle the effects of the plagues while trying to make it back to the bookshop.

As the sun rose behind Aziraphale, warming his unfurled wings, he bent down to check a young woman’s neck for a pulse.

“This one’s alive,” Raph called from where he was checking another non-decayed body several yards away. “We should move him out of the street before the spiders come back.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to agree but was immediately accosted by the young woman he’d thought unconscious.

“Auuughhh!!” she yelled as she pummeled him with a broken chair leg.

“Young lady, desist! Please! We are endeavoring to— Ow! Stop, I say!”

Raph had started in Aziraphale’s direction, but his faux victim had grabbed his leg and tripped him.

Aziraphale finally managed to break away by stumbling himself over another person’s body still lying in the street.

“Madam!” he said, affronted, as he straightened his waist coat, and Raph continued to wrestle with the other marauder for control of Raph’s sword. “I assure you, we are here to assist.”

“Bollocks! You feathered freaks are what caused all this!”

“Feathered…? No, no. I mean, yes.” She raised her chair leg again. “But not us! The other angels, yes. But Raph and I—”

“Wait! I recognize that one,” said Raph’s attacker. “From the telly. He’s the Savior of Saint James Park.”

“Savior of…? No. I mean, yes. I did stop the explosion from hurting anyone, but I wouldn’t say—”

“You’re on our side?” the young woman said, immediately dropping the chair leg and tearing up.

“Yes, of course. But I must warn you—”

The young woman sank to the ground again, sobbing.

“Oh, dear. I am so, so sorry for all of this.”

“Can you stop it?” the man who’d attacked Raph said as he came over to stand next to the woman. Raph trailed after him, wiping blood from a cut lip and glaring.

“I… I don’t know,” Azirphale said truthfully. “I’m trying to—we’re trying to.” He gestured to Raph.

“How can we help?” the man asked, supporting the woman as she got back to her feet. With effort, she recovered her composure.

“Don’t try to attack any other angels, for starters,” Raph said as he came up from behind. “They’d destroy you in a split second without blinking.”

“They took my son,” the woman said. “He was just a boy. What possible reason could they have? I thought angels were good!”

“They’re taking people?” Raph said, alarmed.

“Angels…are complicated,” Aziraphale said. “They mean to be good, but they get confused.”

“Confused?” the woman yelled at him.

“Marsha,” the man said, repressively.

“No, Richard. Look at this place,” Marsha said, waving her hand to encompass the entire street. “This is not confusion. This is demolition!”

And she wasn’t wrong. As Aziraphale took in the whole, not just the details of the battle in front of him, he saw what she meant. In a single night, nearly everything had been destroyed. Fires tore through buildings from the lightning storms. Bodies filled the streets, both long-dead corpses and newly made ones. Glass windows shattered, blood everywhere, either from burst pipes or actual people, and a fine layer of ash settling on top of everything. It looked like World War III had already been raging for months.

“What do we do?” Richard asked Aziraphale, his expression wrecked.

Aziraphale found he had no answer. Words stuck in his throat, and he couldn’t voice them.

“Find shelter,” Raph said, jumping in to bridge the gap. “Find others like yourselves and take cover. Help each other survive. For all we know, there are more plagues to come.”

“More—?”

But before Marsha could finish her horrified question, a great whooshing sound interrupted her.

“Good God,” Aziraphale breathed as he watched all the water in the Thames shoot straight up into the air like a reverse curtain, casting boats to the shore as if they were toys. As the water surged upward, it evaporated into mist and then into nothingness.

Minutes later, the water had disappeared entirely, no doubt leaving an empty crater where the Thames had once been.

“That’s seven,” Raph said, quietly. “If we’re still keeping track.”

Aziraphale turned to the humans, both of whom looked like they might faint. “Do what Raph says. Find others and secure your safety. Focus on that. We’ll take care of the rest.”

“How?” Marsha demanded. “When?”

“As soon as possible. Whatever it takes,” Aziraphale promised.

“Find my son,” she said, her voice breaking. She kissed him on the cheek, tears still streaming down hers, and walked away with Richard in tow.

Aziraphale watched them leave, his own heart tempering with determination.

Raph sighed as he walked past Aziraphale, headed in the direction of the bookshop once again. Aziraphale hurried a few steps to catch up, shaking out his wings.

“This is why I can’t help but love you, you know.”

“What?”

“The way you talked to them, that look on your face…” Raph huffed. “Never mind. Let’s just go.” Then he flexed his own wings and shot up into the air, Aziraphale joining him.

They’d decided an hour since that there was no point in concealing their identities anymore, since humans were now fully aware of the existence of angels, and flying was much faster than walking and fighting their way through wandering clumps of death.

Still, they’d have arrived at the shop ages ago, were it not for Aziraphale’s insistence that they stop and help humans wherever he felt help was needed. He couldn’t stand the idea of innocent people suffering for Heaven’s pride. However, after this last encounter, he admitted that he was moving too slowly, given the dire circumstances the world was facing. So he trained his gaze on the horizon, rather than scanning the ground. Another ten minutes flying should do it, as long as nothing else impeded them.

And as soon as he thought that, he felt the first hailstone fall.

It was nothing terrible at first. A small stone tweaking one of his feathers out of place. But it was followed by another and another. And as they grew more plentiful, they grew larger as well.

“We have to—” Raph said just before he was struck from above by a ball of ice the size of his head.

“Raph!” Aziraphale shouted as the other angel plummeted out of the sky.

Without thinking, Aziraphale dove straight down, just managing to nab the other angel’s arm before he tumbled into a tree. Aziraphale looped his other arm across Raph’s chest, shifting the weight off his damaged shoulder. Raph hung dazed and limp from Aziraphale’s hold as they landed. He was bleeding freely from a cut on his face but was still mostly conscious.

“God bless it,” Raph said as he sank to his hands and knees, wrapping an arm around his ribs and shaking his head to clear it from the continuing onslaught.

The tree provided slight protection, but the storm was worsening. Even with angel sight, Aziraphale has having difficulty making anything out through the downpour of icy projectiles.

“Can you move?” Aziraphale said, trying to shelter the other angel with his increasingly damaged wing. “We’ll never make it back if—”

A boulder-sized hailstone crashed into a nearby lightpost, splintering it in half, before tumbling into a nearby fountain with a bloody splash. It was followed by another large hailstone, then another. Raph and Aziraphale spent what energy they had dodging the larger hailstones while being pelted by the smaller, still painful, baseball-sized hailstones.

“Banish your wings!” Aziraphale yelled through the sound of the storm, doing so himself as he said it.

Both he and Raph were bleeding from more than a few cuts. Raph was the more grievously injured from being knocked out of the sky, but Aziraphale was fading fast himself. If they didn’t find shelter soon, they’d misstep eventually and be discorporated.

Maybe it was time for a miracle. Everything in him quailed against the idea of being caught, of leading the forces of light and darkness right to his doorstep. But if he and Raph never made it to the bookshop, would it matter? Crowley. What would Crowley do?

Then, out of seemingly nowhere, the Bentley came roaring around the corner, honking at them long and loud as it careened sideways to a halt, almost ramming into the tree next to them.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted at the sight of the Bentley. He grabbed the nearly senseless Raph and hauled him toward the car.

But when Aziraphale got there, he realized there was no one in the driver’s seat. He shoved Raph into the back and looked around for Crowley. The car, driverless, then _honked at him_, of its own accord, revving its engine and playing _Your angel eyes are shining bright, I wanna take your hand - lead you from this place…Ride the wild wind…_ as loud as its speakers would go.

So Aziraphale climbed into the passenger’s seat without further question and grabbed the door handle. The Bentley floored the accelerator and zoomed through the otherwise traffic-less streets, driving over bodies when it couldn’t go around, dodging hail as best it could, though it was no doubt getting pummeled within an inch of its life.

After five minutes, Aziraphale, his stomach roiling, could just make out the bookshop. He’d never been so glad to see anything in his life.

“Just drive on inside, if you would,” he told the Bentley. “Don’t spare the doorway. I can always repair it later.”

So as the Bentley closed in on the building, Aziraphale shut his eyes. He heard the Bentley honking furiously and then a loud crash as it took out the doorway and drove full on into the lobby area of the bookshop and stopped with a jerk.

Shaken and bleeding, Aziraphale pushed the door open, shoving books out of the way as he stumbled out.

“Aziraphale!”

“Anathema?” he said, bewildered at seeing her face poking out from the back room. “How did you get here?”

But it wasn’t just Anathema. It was Newt and the children peering out from the kitchen, as well. Actually, Adam was missing.

Oh, good Lord. Had the Bentley run over Adam?

“Where is Adam?” he asked, feeling faint. “Did we...?” He gestured at the Bentley, unable to voice his fear.

“No, no, no,” Anathema assured him, stumbling toward him through the chaotic mess. “No, Adam was gone before you got here.”

“Oh, thank God.” Aziraphale leaned heavily against the Bentley. “Can you help me get Raph out of the car?”

“Who is Raph?” asked Newt as he hurried to help Aziraphale with the other angel.

“He’s a friend. A good friend.” Aziraphale said.

“No miracles,” Raph said, weakly, as they laid him on the now crooked chaise. “No miracles, Aziraphale.”

“I know, I know. But if it’s a choice between discovery and discorporation…”

“I’m not _that_ bad off,” Raph insisted, though his breathing remained labored, as if he’d broken several ribs. “I’ll heal on my own in due course. We can’t risk detection.”

“All right. But if that changes, or if we run out of time, then I’m overruling you.”

“Aziraphale,” Anathema said, sounding uneasy. “There’s something we need to tell you.”

“Oh, dear. What now?”

“Crowley’s been taken.”

“Crowley’s been…” Aziraphale said, going instantly cold. “By who? When?”

“About an hour ago,” Newt said, solemnly. “An angel—handsome in a way that makes you want to deck him. Gabriel, I think Crowley called him.”

“He took Adam, too,” said Brian.

Aziraphale felt a curious numbness start in his chest and spread outward. Not a numbness born of apathy or despair. More a high-frequency vibration powered by resolve that settled his nerves, sharpened his will, and focused his energy into a single, implacable point.

“He forced Crowley to surrender by threatening Adam,” Anathema said. “He wants Crowley to decipher the prophecies and took Adam to use as incentive. I’m worried he’ll hurt them both.”

“Do you happen to know where he took them?” Aziraphale asked calmly, as the others around him squinted, shielding their eyes.

“Aziraphale, no,” Raph said, coughing wetly. “I can’t…I can’t protect you…”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers without a second thought, healing Raph, the Bentley, and himself in an instant.

Raph groaned. “Damn you, Aziraphale. Why must you do _everything_ your own way?”

“We’re leaving. So it doesn’t matter if they come.”

“We’re leaving, too?” Pepper asked.

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said. “Bad things happen when we separate, so we’re not separating anymore.”

“You can’t possibly be thinking of taking them with us to retrieve Crowley and the Antichrist,” Raph protested, getting to his feet. “It’s unconscionable.”

“Actually, I need them to come with me,” Anathema said. “Agnes wants us to gather the witches.”

“You cannot possibly go out there alone,” Aziraphale said. “Not with the plagues destroying the city.”

Anathema took Newt’s hand. “We can do it. We have to.”

Aziraphale didn’t like it. He could feel in his gut that what she was doing was extremely dangerous, that the end was swiftly approaching. But Raph was right, as well—taking them all into Heaven wouldn’t exactly be safer for them. Besides, all of Aziraphale’s attention needed to be focused on rescuing Crowley.

Anathema must have seen the acceptance in Aziraphale’s eyes, because she said,

“Meet us tomorrow at the London Eye.”

Aziraphale nodded once to show he understood.

“I’m not sure which is madder,” Raph said as he walked over to stand next to Aziraphale. “The fact that you’re going, or that I’m going with you.” He took Aziraphale’s hand and gave him an earnest look. “I hope to God you have some sort of plan.”

“I’m going to murder the chief of all angels,” Aziraphale said, as if he were speaking about the weather.

“That—that’s your plan?”

“Indeed.”

Then just as Aziraphale was in the act of snapping his fingers, Dog leaped at Raph, who instinctively caught the animal with his free arm as the miracle transported them away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from Ride the Wild Wind, by (of course) Queen


	24. Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley aggravates Gabriel to the point of violence. Though, tbh, who doesn't want to punch Crowley in the mouth sometimes?

“Oh, for Satan’s sake,” Crowley whinged. “This is all so incredibly tedious. I’ve done this once already, you know. Why must I do it all again?”

Gabriel gritted his teeth, gesturing to where Adam sat in a chair across the room, bound in similar manacles as Crowley’s. “The child is right over there, demon. Do you really want me to demonstrate my excellent maiming skills? I used to be pretty adept at keeping humans alive during multiple amputations, and I would be happy to show you the trick of it. Just. Try me.”

Crowley frowned. And people thought his lot was bad.

“Ugh, fiiiiine,” he said, drawing the ‘i’ out as long as possible. Then he gestured across the white table with his manacled hands. “Give us the next one.”

He knew the second he finished translating them all that he and Adam were as good as dead. Stalling would only do so much, though. He needed to figure out an escape plan. Unfortunately, it was rather hard to think with people badgering you to read at them, paragraph after paragraph of old English gibberish. Of course, it also didn’t help that Crowley wasn’t actually reading what was written, only pretending to.

“Hmm,” he hmmed, examining the next paragraph for as long as he dared delay. “Says: _When the piper is gone, and the soup is cold on your table, and if the black crow flies to find a new destination, that is the sign._”

“See?” Gabriel said, giving him a vicious grin. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

It actually had been. Crowley wouldn’t say he was running out of Queen lyrics that sounded like portents of destiny, but reciting them out loud without accidentally bursting into song was getting increasingly difficult. In all fairness, he supposed he owed the Bentley new tires for this. He’d never have listened to Queen so religiously of his own volition.

Uriel handed him another passage.

Crowley sighed heavily and pouted at all of them excessively before looking at the page. “_God gave you grace to purge this place, and peace all around may be your fortune_.”

Uriel busily scribbled down every false word with a sleek, white stylus that wrote in silver. Boring. Aziraphale would never write in silver. Hell, Aziraphale would know in an instant that he was quoting Queen lyrics and not prophecies at all, even without the exhaustive knowledge of Queen’s discography that Crowley now had. He was a bit of an idiot at times, sure, but he wasn’t a complete imbecile.

The archangel handed him another prophecy to read, but this one gave Crowley pause. He read it through once. Then twice.

His eyes flicked up to Adam, though his glasses hid the direction of his gaze. He pursed his lips as if trying to parse the language of the prophecy, and he shifted in his extremely uncomfortable chair.

Then he read it again.

_The Damned will conquer the Sanctified and free the Disciple, preparing the way for Immolation, though to do so, he must accept his fate._

Could it mean now? Was this prophecy foretelling this moment, or another?

“Read it!” Gabriel said, slamming his hand on the table.

Crowley cleared his throat. “_You're my only one, and I love the things, I really love the things that you do. You're my best friend_.”

The play of emotions across Gabriel’s face was almost comical. So much so, that Crowley couldn’t resist cracking a tiny smile, though he tried to play it with a straight face, he really did.

But as realization of Crowley’s treachery dawned on Gabriel, so did fury. He palmed the prophecy pages Uriel had written Crowley’s ‘translations’ on and crumpled them in his fist.

“Crowley!” he yelled, grabbing Crowley’s chains and launching himself at the demon.

Crowley tried to dodge Gabriel’s fist, but the celestial bastard was whip-fast and built like a brick wall. Crowley’s jaw nearly fractured under the first blow. His sunglasses flew across the room at the second, not that that mattered. All Crowley saw at this point was stars.

“Stop! I command you to stop!” Adam shouted from where he remained chained to his chair.

But Gabriel didn’t stop.

“Boss, if you discorporate him—“

“I’m going to fucking kill you, you pathetic excuse for a serpent. Get me holy water!”

“But…Gabriel,” somebody said. Michael maybe? Crowley was having a difficult time focusing. “Don’t you remember? He’s immune to holy water.”

“Bullshit. No demon is immune to consecrated matter. I don’t care what you saw.”

Still no one moved.

“Fuck it,” Gabriel said and snapped his fingers. A cup of water appeared in his hand. “You look thirsty, Crowley. Prove to me you’re immune to holy water, or I’ll pour this on your fucking head.”

Okay, maybe the prophecy hadn’t meant _this_ exact moment.

“It’s going to rain in three, two…”

“Gabriel!”

Everyone jumped nearly a foot in the air at the booming, censorious voice coming from the opposite end of the room. Crowley winced as a drop from the tilted cup hit his shoulder, though in truth, he barely noticed the pain through the fog of seeing what he thought was Aziraphale. But surely the dunce hadn’t actually come. Crowley’d left a message for him saying _expressly_ to not do that.

“Ah, if it isn’t the traitor. Well, well, well. Come to see your demon lover extinguished forever?”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the holy water disappeared. He almost didn’t look like himself, holding the Flaming Sword as if prepared to actually use it, steel in his expression and in every line of his body, wings high and tucked out of harm’s way, his aura shining almost too brilliantly to look upon, and clearly spoiling for a fight.

“Let them go,” Aziraphale said, his voice thundering through the room, heavy with the tone of command. “Now.”

“Or what?” Gabriel said, snapping his own sword into this metaphysical plane. “You’ll kill me? You? A principality against an archangel? You must be joking.”

“Let them go,” Aziraphale repeated. “_Now_.”

“Here’s an idea. Why don’t I just discorporate you instead?” Gabriel said as he strode over to loom in front of Aziraphale. “Then I can get back to punishing the wicked while your milquetoast spirit wanders the halls aimlessly like a bad smell.”

“I will fight you if I have to.”

“Oh, really?”

Then without warning, Gabriel struck, moving so fast he nearly blurred. Or maybe that was just Crowley’s aching head. He still couldn’t quite focus as well as usual, but he could see well enough to watch, his heart in his throat, as Aziraphale parried the strike with the Flaming Sword.

Sparks shot through the air as the blades clashed against each other repeatedly, though neither angel so much as blinked. Crowley had never seen Aziraphale move so quickly or gracefully. It was like watching a dance, though, he was pretty sure Aziraphale hadn’t danced since the eighteenth century.

“You’ve improved since you’re training,” Gabriel said grudgingly. “Not enough, obviously, but not bad.”

“I’ve had recent cause to brush up on my skills,” Aziraphale shot back, as he brought his sword down on Gabriel’s shoulder. Sadly, Gabriel managed to twist out of the way before the sword could do any damage. “I figured it would prove useful, and here we are.”

He advanced on Gabriel, putting the archangel on the defensive, even twirling once before delivering a thrust that Gabriel just managed to parry. Who was this sabreur, and what had he done with the real Aziraphale?

Gabriel wheeled behind a pillar to disrupt Aziraphale’s offensive and give himself some room to breathe. Then he countered Aziraphale’s attack with one of his own, putting Aziraphale on the retreat.

Crowley writhed in his cuffs, wishing desperately to be able to miracle himself free. It was only a matter of time before Aziraphale got himself killed. But the manacles held fast. And the other archangels, though absorbed in watching the duel, were still close enough to be tracking Crowley’s every move. Even if he were able to get the cuffs off, he wouldn’t get far with them hovering. Meanwhile Adam was watching the whole thing with a look of horrified fascination on his face. Crowley pulled and yanked against his bonds again to no avail.

“You won’t save them,” Gabriel said. “And you can’t stop what’s coming. Not this time.”

“Watch me.”

Gabriel parried another attack, then used his free hand to shove Aziraphale off balance. Crowley hissed in anger and more than a little fear. But Aziraphale recovered quickly, using his forward momentum to swing around and attack Gabriel from the back.

“I’ll never understand why you _care_ so much. They’re just humans. They live and die like mayflies.”

“They have souls, Gabriel.”

“Barely.”

Aziraphale finally got in a lucky jab and left a scorch mark along the outside of Gabriel’s arm. Gabriel side-stepped, clapping his free hand against the injury for a moment.

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale in mock sympathy. “Was that an Armani? I know an excellent tailor who can do wonders with singeing.”

“You’ll pay for that, traitor.”

“For the suit, or your pride?”

With a roar, Gabriel rushed Aziraphale, hacking and slashing with ferocious intensity. Crowley despaired, thinking that Aziraphale would be discorporated for certain this time. But…miraculously…he wasn’t. In fact, the faster Gabriel pivoted and lunged, the more calmly and gracefully Aziraphale matched him—stroke for stroke, counter for counter. Crowley had never seen anything like it.

And then, in a moment, the dance stopped.

Crowley couldn’t see at first from his angle what had happened. But then Gabriel stumbled back a few steps, and Crowley saw the Flaming Sword sticking out from his suit jacket. No, not his jacket. His chest. Gabriel looked down at the hilt in utter shock and disbelief. Then he collapsed to the ground while Aziraphale looked on with that same odd, detached look on his face, as if he were simply talking about the weather with an acquaintance he didn’t particularly like. But rather than the potential for afternoon rain, what he said was,

“I told you not to touch my things.”

A horrified silence blanketed the room. Then…

“Gabriel!” Uriel shouted and ran to his side, followed quickly by Michael and Sandalphon.

Crowley’s emotions tumbled around each other. Gabriel dead? Or at least temporarily discorporated? Crowley wasn’t sure if holy fire had the same effect on angels that demon fire did. The thought seemed alien and…good? But also strange, because it was Aziraphale who had killed him. Aziraphale who’d never killed anything in his life. It left Crowley with a surreal feeling, as if he’d barely known Aziraphale after all. Because the Aziraphale he thought he knew would be going through paroxysms of guilt and dismay at killing a fly, let alone the head angel in charge of all Heaven. But he just stood there, unmoving. As if he did this kind of thing every day.

Then Dog came bounding into the room, heading straight for Adam.

“Dog!” Adam said, delighted. “What are you doing here?”

“You won’t get away with this, Aziraphale,” Gabriel choked wetly. “The reckoning is coming whether I am there to see it or not.”

“Is that so?”

“Shh, Gabriel,” Uriel said, cushioning her boss’s head with her jacket. “Michael, call down to Requisition. Get the paperwork started.”

“We’ve collected the sacrifices necessary. You will see how humans are meant to be used. For the glory of Heaven.”

“Psst, Crowley.”

Crowley’s head whipped around to see a much more convincing looking Aziraphale, disheveled and anxious, peeking at him from around the corner. Crowley _almost_ shouted at him, in relief and also frustration. He’d told the infuriating angel to stay away. But he managed to stop himself in time. The last thing he wanted was for the moron squad to become suddenly interested in this side of the room.

Aziraphale scuttled toward Crowley, followed silently by a hunched-over Raph. There was almost no cover to keep them hidden from Uriel, Sandalphon and Michael’s view, but the archangels were so immersed in the defeat of their champion that they didn’t even think to look up.

Aziraphale stopped at Crowley, taking a key from his pocket and unlocking the cuffs that secured him. Once the manacles left contact with his skin, Crowley immediately felt his powers return. He took a full breath for the first time since Gabriel had taken him from the bookshop.

“I’m here to rescue you,” Aziraphale whispered, clearly pleased with himself. And Crowley would have laid a kiss on him right then, just for being revoltingly adorable, but Raph had managed to free Adam and was skulking along back in their direction.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Crowley contented himself with whispering back.

Once out in the hallway, Aziraphale took immediate charge.

“Raph, gather the other rebels and fill them in on what’s happened. Steal whatever weapons you can find, and meet us at the London Eye tomorrow morning at first light.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, nodding, as if to a commanding officer, though there was far more in his eyes that he wasn’t saying. He turned to go but Aziraphale stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“And Raph?” Aziraphale smiled softly at the other angel, in a way that Crowley rarely saw directed to anyone but himself. “Thank you.”

Raph hesitated, then nodded again and hurried off down the long corridor.

“We must be quick,” Aziraphale said, extending one hand to Adam and the other to Crowley.

“How did you even find us?” Adam asked.

“Dog found you, of course,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “Led us right to you.”

“And that other you? Who was that?”

“Just an illusion, I’m afraid. I’d never have actually beat Gabriel in a fair fight. Quickly now. We must go before Gabriel realizes—”

A roar from inside the room they just vacated interrupted his explanation.

“Yes, time to go,” Aziraphale said, and then miracled all four of them back to the bookshop…where the Bentley seemed to have crashed through the shop doors and toppled bookshelves and crushed Aziraphale’s chair.

“What the devil?” Crowley asked, looking around at the destruction.

“Long story,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t worry, I healed the car.”

Part of Crowley wanted to say something snarky about extra gears, but another, larger part of him really just wanted to wrap his arms around his angel and sleep for the rest of eternity.

Aziraphale must have read his mind, because he said to Adam, “I think it’s time we all took a rest, don’t you? We have a big day tomorrow.”

“But I’m not tired,” Adam answered around a giant yawn.

“Well, I’ll bring you up some cocoa, shall I? That always works in the movies.”

Adam nodded and padded upstairs with Dog, as if he’d always lived in the flat above the bookshop.

Then Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and the gaping hole that used to be the front door became an impenetrable metal wall. The same material covered all the windows in the front, and, Crowley suspected, the back, now, as well.

“This should protect us for the night,” Aziraphale said. “Raph and I disabled the Miracle Monitoring dispatch device before rescuing you, and the bookshop is still undetectable on Heaven’s global positioning network. And with as disconnected as the other angels are with earth, they are lost without it. We should leave again in the morning, but for tonight, I think—”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley interrupted and then stopped. He honestly didn’t know which thing to say first. There were so many emotions jumbled all together in his crowded, chaotic mind. So instead of saying any of them, he simply reached out for his angel, and drew him close, wrapping his arms around him, and swearing to himself on every holy book ever written that he would never, ever let go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from: Ogre Battle, The Prophet's Song, and You're My Best Friend, all by Q U E E N


	25. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief, quiet interlude before the End of the World.

Aziraphale cracked open the door to the bedroom he only rarely used to check on its guest inhabitants. Seeing Adam and Dog curled up in the exact center of the bed, already fast asleep, caused a warm glow in Aziraphale’s heart. And quite without even thinking about it, he whispered a blessing on the boy, the once Antichrist, now just a normal child…well, almost. He still had something of the immortal about him, but it was hard to pin down its exact nature.

The angel set down the cup of cocoa—with marshmallows, of course—on the nightstand, with a small miracle to keep it in a state of perfect warmth until Adam had a chance to drink it. Then he stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him, and returned to the flat’s sitting area, where Crowley was waiting for him.

Crowley, slumped on the couch, glasses off, and scrubbing a hand through his hair, hadn’t noticed Aziraphale returning, so the angel didn’t immediately speak. Instead, he took the opportunity to assess Crowley’s state of being.

The demon looked exhausted, and beaten up, and worried, and Aziraphale’s smile faded. More than anything, he wanted Crowley to be happy—or, at least, as happy as a fallen angel cut off from the Light of God could be. But Aziraphale feared that after this next confrontation, things would change forever. And it looked as if Crowley were coming to grips with the same conclusion.

Aziraphale walked quietly over to the couch and sat down next to the demon he’d loved for literal centuries.

Crowley raised his head, his worried expression unchanged, which in itself was worrisome. By now, Crowley would have stuffed down his concern, playing it off as nothing to write home about, or making a joke or a crude gesture to elicit either a laugh or a reproach from Aziraphale, depending on his mood. That Crowley was no longer hiding his concern meant two things, one, that he finally trusted Aziraphale, and two, that he was frightened out of his wits.

“What now, angel?” he asked.

“Now we wait till morning,” Aziraphale said. “And try to rest.”

“I…”

Crowley twitched with nervous energy, as if something needed to be said and his body was warning him against it.

“What is it, dear?” Aziraphale laid his hand on Crowley’s knee. “Just tell me, whatever it is.”

Crowley blew out a breath and leaned against the back of the couch, looking at the ceiling rather than at Aziraphale.

“Anathema told me something days ago, and I think…I think she’s right. I didn’t want to tell you, because it’ll upset you, but you should probably know.”

“I’m listening.”

“She thinks that the reason we didn’t manage to fully prevent the apocalypse last time is because nobody died. She says that every time the end of the world was averted in the past, it’s required a sacrifice. A human sacrifice.”

Aziraphale nodded, not answering right away. It made sense. And he understood why neither Crowley nor Anathema wanted to tell him. More concerning to Aziraphale was that Gabriel seemed to have figured it out as well. Of course, Gabriel’s intent in sacrificing the humans he’d stolen was to ensure the world stayed dead this time. Intent was everything. And as per usual, Aziraphale’s intent was completely counter to Gabriel’s.

“What are you thinking?” Crowley asked.

“That I understand why you didn’t want to tell me,” Aziraphale said simply. He took Crowley’s hand in his. “Put your worries to rest, though, my dear. I am all right.”

“I think,” Crowley started, then stopped abruptly and swallowed. “I think it has to be Adam.”

Aziraphale smiled sadly at the demon and squeezed his hand. “We shall see.”

“That’s it?” Crowley asked, confused. “You’re not going to argue with me?”

“Who am I to argue with fate?” Aziraphale said. “I have hope that we won’t have to choose. I have faith in the Ineffable Plan.”

“But…you said God didn’t actually have a Plan.”

“That’s true.”

Crowley stared at him, waiting for something more. But Aziraphale didn’t have anything more to say about it. He simply believed.

Crowley shook his head. “You can’t have faith in something that you know for a fact doesn’t exist.”

Aziraphale kissed the back of Crowley’s hand, smiling mischievously at him. “I have faith that a demon can and does love me. That shouldn’t exist. And yet…”

Crowley made a couple of inarticulate, stuttery sounds before saying, “I have no argument for that.”

“Then let’s not argue, my love. Let’s just enjoy a quiet evening together.”

Crowley’s troubled expression melted into one of quiet acquiescence, and he smiled that slight, twist-of-lip smile that Aziraphale loved the most. It was often shadowed by a protective layer of sarcasm, but tonight, the barrier was stripped away. The smile was true and vulnerable…still shadowed, but this time with suffering.

Crowley got to his feet, slowly pulling his hand away from Aziraphale’s, and walked to the small kitchen on the the other side of the room. He opened cabinets, clearly looking for something. Aziraphale almost asked if he could help direct him to his target, but then remembered that he rarely used this flat for anything, much less cooking, so even if he knew what Crowley was looking for, he likely couldn’t help him find it.

Eventually, Crowley settled on a medium-sized mixing bowl, which he took from the cabinet above the sink. He set the bowl on the counter next to the sink and turned on the water. He took off his jacket, laying it over the back of a nearby chair. Then he rolled up his sleeves, just before cupping his hand under the water. He seemed to be waiting for the water to warm up.

Aziraphale was getting increasingly curious by the second. What was the wily, old serpent up to? But he decided to wait it out. Give Crowley his moment.

Once the bowl was filled with water, Crowley grabbed two hand towels from a long-forgotten drawer along with a dusty, unused bottle of hand soap.

Then, when he turned, he captured Aziraphale’s gaze with his own and wouldn’t let go. The burning intensity of it set Aziraphale glowing again in involuntary reaction.

Aziraphale tried not to fidget as Crowley took his sweet time crossing the room to him. The angel almost broke the silence then, just to relieve the tension building like a pressure cooker under his ribs. But in truth, he didn’t have a thing to say that could possibly be put into words. Only touch could even come close to adequately conveying his feelings in this moment. So he waited.

When Crowley finally reached him, rather than resume his seat on the couch, Crowley kneeled in front of Aziraphale.

Aziraphale blinked in confusion, still having no idea what Crowley was about.

Finally, Crowley dropped his gaze to Aziraphale’s lap, then his knees, then his feet.

Aziraphale felt the slow crawl of Crowley’s gaze like a physical caress. He shivered but kept the silence.

Crowley laid the bowl and towel on the carpet next to Aziraphale’s feet. He added a small amount of soap to the water. It smelled of lavender and vanilla.

Then Crowley unlaced one of Aziraphale’s shoes and slid it off his foot.

Only then, _only then_, did Aziraphale catch on to what Crowley was up to.

“No…oh, no, dear,” he said, leaning forward and trying to draw away at the same time. “Crowley, please. Don’t. I’m… I’m not…”

“We’re on our own side now,” Crowley reminded him, gazing at Aziraphale with a look of somber wisdom and devotion that broke the angel’s heart. “I can choose who I worship.”

“But I’m just…I’m nobody,” Aziraphale said in the smallest voice he’d ever heard himself use.

Crowley looked down and continued undressing Aziraphale’s feet.

“You are the only one, angel. The only one.”

And while Aziraphale didn’t fully comprehend what Crowley meant by that, he gave up trying to convince him to stop. He watched helplessly and humbled as Crowley spent the next twenty minutes thoroughly washing and drying his feet. Then Crowley miracled a pot of sandalwood-scented oil and applied that as well.

After he’d dried his own hands, Crowley stood, gathered the washing supplies, and returned to the kitchen, where he cleaned and dried the bowl, and put everything away.

When he finally came back to the sitting room, he sank onto the couch and pulled Aziraphale into his arms. And only when the angel laid his head on Crowley’s shoulder did he realize that tears were flowing unchecked down his cheeks.

“I don’t deserve you,” Aziraphale said. “You know that, don’t you?”

“No, of course not,” Crowley said, resting his cheek against Aziraphale’s head. “You deserve so much more. Right shame, though, you’re stuck with me.”

Aziraphale smiled despite himself.

After a few minutes of blissfully drinking in Crowley’s touch, Aziraphale’s thoughts turned once again to the day ahead.

“It’s so difficult to not give in,” he all but whispered, resting a hand on Crowley’s chest where the demon’s heart beat strong and sure.

“Give in to what, angel?”

“To the temptation to stay here, in the bookshop, forever. To never leave. To stay with you.”

“Then give in,” he said, an invitation to Aziraphale to Fall, innocently spoken. An offer, not a manipulation. And Aziraphale almost, _almost_ took it. Were it not for the small boy and his dog sleeping in the next room, he would have.

Instead, Aziraphale pulled back just far enough to gaze into Crowley’s face, pouring all his love into this moment.

Then he leaned in and kissed Crowley. A feather-light touch that landed just to the left of center. Perfect in its imperfection. Just as they were.

Crowley shifted on the couch to adjust the angle, reached up to capture Aziraphale’s face in his hands, and returned the kiss with first reverence, then increasing ardor. Aziraphale matched his zeal, ignoring, if only for the moment, the change that tomorrow would bring.

For uncounted hours, they explored each other, eyes closed, mapping lost continents and ancient temples and far-flung stars. They took solace in each other, making wordless promises to each other that both knew neither could keep, but promising anyway. And though no priest was present, the pact was made: as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feet-washing reference comes from John 13:1-15 (KJV)


	26. Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes arrive at the Eye and prepare for the final battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only four more chapters to go! I can't believe it's almost over. *sad face*

“Crowley? Can I talk to you?” Adam asked when Crowley was alone with him in the flat above the bookshop. Aziraphale had gone to the downstairs kitchen to get tea.

“Sure,” Crowley said, though it made him uncomfortable. He didn’t know how to tell the boy that he’d likely be dying soon.

“I don’t think Aziraphale is going to let me do what needs to be done.”

Crowley gaped at the small human for a full minute. Then he made a few stuttering attempts at saying something before finally landing on, “You know what’s— You know?”

“I know it’s worse this time. I don’t know exactly what to do, but I didn’t last time either. I just know I’m part of it.”

Crowley blew out a heavy breath. “Not gonna lie to you, kid. I have no idea what to expect.”

“At the moment, I’m more concerned about Aziraphale.”

Crowley wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Comfort the boy by dismissing his, likely correct, intuition? Or show him due respect by validating it, and thus worrying him further?

“He interfered last time, remember? Got me to stop time, give us a chance to talk. It worked,” Crowley said, splitting the difference.

“True.”

“Are you worried?”

Adam thought about this as he gave Dog a cracker he’d found in his pocket. 

“I am older now,” he said simply.

Crowley waited for him to elaborate, but Adam seemed to think this was answer enough. Crowley almost pointed out that he was only a week and a bit older, so not by terribly much, but instead, let it go. It wasn’t as if Adam wasn’t right to be concerned, or that Crowley could offer him anything beyond sympathy.

“Ah, here we are,” Aziraphale said, returning with tea and a few sandwiches he’d managed to scrounge from downstairs. “Eat up. We’ll need our strength today.” And though his tone was as ebullient as ever, Crowley noticed the uncharacteristic restraint in his gestures. 

“What’s the plan, angel?” Crowley asked.

“We’ll head to the London Eye and meet our friends,” he said simply. “Try not to run into any effects of the plagues along the way.”

“So we’ll need the Bentley?”

“I believe so, yes. I think we should avoid miracles for the present. Just until we know what we’re dealing with.”

“You’ll at least need to let us out of our fortress.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “With any luck, we’ll be far enough away by the time they arrive that they won’t find us.”

Crowley nodded. He desperately wanted to spirit Aziraphale away from all of this—against the angel’s will, if necessary. The only thing keeping him from doing so right that moment was leaving the possibility open of doing so later. If it came to a point of no return, and it looked like he might lose his angel after all, he wasn’t ruling out just grabbing Aziraphale and popping them both to Alpha Centauri, fate of the world be damned.

The four of them had made their way downstairs and climbed into the Bentley by the time he’d worked this all out in his mind. Crowley took a steadying breath, staring at the steering wheel in his hands.

“Ready, dears?” Aziraphale asked.

Adam nodded, Dog barked, and Crowley started the car.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers then, and the wall behind them popped out of existence. In the rearview, Crowley could see where the rising sun had just started to touch the far side of the street.

“Let’s be quick, love,” Aziraphale said. “We don’t have much time.”

Crowley shifted into reverse, and floored the accelerator, running over who knew what as he exited the bookshop, crossed the sidewalk, and turned the car in the direction of the London Eye. He braked, shifted out of reverse, and floored it again, feeling the tingle of ethereal energy behind them just after they’d rounded the street corner.

When they reached Belvedere, Crowley drove the Bentley straight across, onto the grass and through the park, stopping just shy of the—well, what used to be the river. It was a smoking dried-out crevasse, now, with all manner of rotting dead things in it. 

But for all the bodies littered around, there was life, too. Women and men, a hundred or more, loitered on the lawn, talking with each other in clumps, consulting old books, and carrying an assortment of occult instruments that could have been authentic magical objects or knockoffs from a New Age store for all Crowley could tell.

“Well, we must be in the right place,” Crowley said as he got out of the Bentley.

Aziraphale followed suit and helped Adam out of the back as well. Dog jumped out behind Adam just as Anathema, Newt, Agnes, and the rest of the Them came running up. 

“Adam!” glasses-boy shouted, flinging himself at his friend. Adam stumbled back a few paces at the unexpected impact. But it only lasted a second before glasses-boy pulled away again, looking embarrassed. Crowley understood this entire interaction on a bone-deep level. If any of them managed to survived this travesty, Crowley’d have to take glasses-boy aside at some point for a conversation.

“What’s happening, bicycle-girl?” Crowley asked. “What’s with all the fortune tellers?”

“Agnes’s idea,” she said. “She wants to…she says that with everything…all the laws of natural order that have been violated during both Armageddon and now whatever this is… Basically, the dimension we’re in right now, it’s fraying, coming apart. She says we need to shift the earth to another dimension to even have a prayer of saving it.”

In the stunned silence that followed this pronouncement, Aziraphale turned slowly toward Crowley and said,

“Did you hear that, darling? She thinks we should shift the entire planet to a new metaphysical plane.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Oh, for Satan’s sake.”

“Worst idea ever, I believe, is what you said,” Aziraphale continued.

Because as much as Aziraphale was a being of divine Heavenly love, he was also a sassy little bitch when he wanted to be.

“I still think it’s a terrible idea. How would we even go about it?”

“You wouldn’t,” Anathema said. “That’s what the witches are for.”

“Question still stands.”

Anathema sighed, irritated. “We’re going to pull it through the Eye.”

“Sorry. What?”

“I’m not going to go into details, because time is short. But we’re basically running a network of ley-line energy along the struts to open a portal, and then pulling the earth... like, through it.”

“The whole earth.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Through a Ferris wheel.”

“Says the millennia-old snake-guy with a car that’s half sentient.”

Crowley considered this. “Fair point.”

Then she turned to Adam. “We’ll need you, Adam.”

“Why me? I don’t really have powers anymore.”

“Yeah, all he can do now is turn water into Coke,” indignant-girl confirmed.

“Or that burned bush incident,” glasses-boy piped up, shoving his glasses back up his nose.

“They’re right. I haven’t been able to do the big stuff for ages now.”

“Well, first of all, it’s only been a week. But more importantly, it’s less about what you can do, and more about who you are.” 

“How do you mean?”

“You are an entire node of ley-line energy in a single person. You amplify magic ten-fold. It’s the only way I was able to keep the demons away from the entire air base for as long as I did.”

“But I have to help Aziraphale.”

Anathema knelt in front of Adam, her face serious. “No, you don’t,” she said quietly. “Not this time.”

“But it’s my fault. None of this would be happening if it weren’t for me.”

Anathema struggled to control her expression, to hide the upset she was clearly feeling.

“If I may, my dear,” Aziraphale said, stepping closer to them and taking Adam’s hand. “Adam, why don’t you come with me for a moment? I have a trick I’d like to show you.”

“Ooo, is it prestidigitation?” the boy without glasses said, only it came out _presditagion_.

Indignant-girl scoffed. “That’s not what it’s called, Brian.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m sorry, children. This trick is for Adam alone.”

And with that, he drew the Antichrist off to the side, out of earshot of all of them. Even Dog stuck close to Crowley rather than follow his master to whatever Aziraphale was going to show him.

Crowley kept his eyes glued on them, though, partially because he thought Aziraphale was certain to get into some kind of trouble out here in the open like this, and partially because he couldn’t tear his gaze away even if he wanted to.

So far, all they were doing was talking, though. No fluttery hand movements indicating coins being plucked out of thin air or scarves up sleeves or anything.

“Crowley,” bicycle-girl said, moving into his peripheral vision.

“What?” Crowley asked without shifting his gaze.

“Agnes has a message for you.”

“That so?”

“Yes.” She hesitated, seeming to be waiting for something. “Do you want to hear it?” she said finally.

“Not really, no.”

Anathema took a deep breath, as if preparing herself for something difficult.

“Look,” she said. “I don’t know why she thinks this, but she says that everything—everything we’re doing today, the whole fate of the world, all of it—everything hinges on you.”

“On me?” Crowley said, surprised into chuckling. “Well, you, my friend, are in for a very big disappointment, then.”

“I’m serious, Crowley. She says it all hinges on a decision you have to make.”

_The Damned will conquer the Sanctified…_

“I don’t know what to tell you, bicycle-girl. My powers are pretty restricted right now. My motivation even more so.”

“I’m not asking, Crowley. I’m telling.”

“Fine. Tell me, then. What is this decision I have to make?”

“I don’t know. She won’t say. But she says you’ll know it when it’s time.”

“Brilliant. Anything else?”

“Actually, yes,” Anathema said, seeming hesitant again. “She wants to talk to you.”

Crowley finally dropped his vigil over Aziraphale long enough to look at the witch. “How’m I supposed to do that? She’s a damned golden ball.”

Anathema caught Crowley’s hand and pulled it up, dropping the pendulum into Crowley’s palm. “Here.”

Crowley wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting—fully formed, Old-English sentences falling directly into his brain? Silent movies? Flashes of light in patterns like Morse code? Whatever he’d thought it would be, though, what he got wasn’t that.

Agnes did not so much communicate with him as she emoted at him. He felt her like a farewell but with a sorrow so deep that it could only mean mortality. But there was a thin shadow of hope to the feeling as well. The hope of an iterative dawn. She was telling him to let go. To survive. To have faith.

Crowley looked up again to where Aziraphale had taken Adam, afraid that they’d be missing. But, astoundingly, both angel and boy were still accounted for. In fact, at that moment, Aziraphale pulled the boy in for a tight hug, and let him go with a proud smile. Then they walked back toward Crowley and Anathema with some kind of understanding between them.

The rest of the Them ran up to Adam, asking to see the trick, though indignant-girl said _she_ hadn’t seen any trick, and she’d been watching closely. Adam smiled and shook his head, leading the gaggle back toward the Eye while they chattered at each other.

“What a bright lad he is,” Aziraphale said to Crowley and Anathema. “I believe he will do very well as a human.”

“Let’s hope he survives this then,” Anathema muttered darkly.

“Wait,” Crowley said, suddenly suspicious. “You weren’t referring to the world ending just then, were you?”

Anathema crossed her arms, looking guilty and resentful of it. “Shifting an entire planet to a new dimension is going to take way more energy than a single node can provide. If Adam doesn’t have access to a deeper reservoir, as we all hope like hell that he does, then we’ll burn him out before we even start the chant.”

And with that cheery news, she took Agnes back from Crowley, picked up the hem of her skirt, and followed the kids deeper into the collaboration of witches.

“Well, here we are, killing kids again,” Crowley said, sounding much more cavalier about it than he actually felt.

“We’re not killing them, dearest,” Aziraphale said, trying for a comforting tone and failing miserably. “We’re preventing them from being brutally massacred by putting them in the way of just potentially being brutally massacred. It’s completely different.”

“Right. Silly me.”

After a minute of awkward silence between them, Aziraphale said, “Are you all right, Crowley? You seem distant.”

Crowley sighed, taking Aziraphale’s hand as he looked down at him. “I don’t want you anywhere near that Eye. And I can’t promise I won’t do something drastic, if…” He let the thought trail away unfinished.

Aziraphale met Crowley’s gaze with the soft version of his own. “I’m not asking you to promise anything, dear. I trust you. Now, trust me.”

Crowley shuddered under the weight of Aziraphale’s faith in him. “I do trust you. It’s everyone else I don’t trust.”

“You don’t have to trust anyone else,” Aziraphale said, pressing a chilled hand to Crowley’s hot cheek. “Just me.”

Crowley nodded, giving in. “All right. I trust you.”

Aziraphale smiled, and some corner of Crowley’s heart lightened somewhat. He was still apprehensive, of course. But his pathetic excuse for a soul could never resist a sign of approval from its redeemer.

“Hey, everyone!” Anathema called out to the assembled crowd, her voice unnaturally louder than it should be. “Thank you all for coming. It’s time to start the ritual. But before we do, remember, stick to your job, no matter what else is going on around you. Hold the line. If one of us falls, fill in the gap. If we falter, we fail. And we can’t fail, or we’ll lose our home, our lives, our loved ones, and billions of other people will lose theirs, too. The world is counting on us, even if they don’t know it. Ready?”

Her question was met with a heavy and determined silence.

“Then let’s do this thing,” she said in her normal tone of voice.

The witch gathering broke up into smaller groups, each group taking one of the capsules in the Eye. As the Eye rotated, lifting another capsule full of witches off the ground, a sort-of electric buzzing seemed to increase in volume and pitch. The more witches, the greater the feeling of static electricity in the air.

The last capsule housed the Them and Anathema. Newt stayed back, well out of the way of the goings on, so as not to disrupt the workings of the Eye itself.

“Here you are, dear boy,” Aziraphale said to Newt, as he pulled the Flaming Sword out from wherever and handed it to the man. Newt, for his part, drew away from the offer, eyeing the Sword with nervousness.

“I don’t think so, thanks all the same. I’ve never used a sword before.”

“Nonsense,” Aziraphale said. “The Sword practically wields itself. And you’re a witchfinder. It may not be a bell or a book, but it certainly qualifies as a candle.”

Newt still hesitated, frozen in indecision.

Aziraphale sighed. “You need protection, dear, and it’s in one of the prophecies.”

“It is?” both Newt and Crowley said at the same time.

“One of the later ones,” Aziraphale said. “Something about a tongue of Flame in a soldier’s hands. Capital F, you know. Tipped me off. And anyway, it just—I don’t know—feels right.”

“But what about you?” Newt asked, taking the hilt gingerly, clearly afraid it would burn him. “Have you got another stashed somewhere?”

“Oh, no, dear. That Sword is special. It’s the only one like it in the world,” the angel said, beaming.

“Then what will you fight with?” Newt insisted, swishing the blade around experimentally now that he knew it wouldn’t burn him.

“Don’t you worry,” Aziraphale answered. “I have plenty of defenses, not the least of which is my guard-demon here.”

Crowley rolled his eyes for the second time in an as many hours, not at all fooled by Aziraphale’s jovial tone. But he didn’t argue the point. He’d just promised to trust Aziraphale, so trust him he would…at least for now.

“Well, it isn’t as if there’s anyone for us to fight anyway,” Crowley said.

And just as he said that, an entire regiment of five thousand angels popped into existence just outside the park, arrayed into battle positions, weapons drawn, waiting for the command to attack. 

Because of course.

“Well, fuck me,” Crowley said, throwing his hands up in disgust. “Fuck me very much.”


	27. Immolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apocalypse 2.0

“Language, dear,” Aziraphale said, though he more said it to distract than to reproach. “We’re lucky they’re still underestimating us.”

Crowley gesticulated wildly at the full regiment of five thousand angels, settled on streets and cars and rooftops and even lamposts like a giant flock of deranged pigeons, as if to say _are you insane??_

“It’s only one regiment,” Aziraphale said. “They must be spread thin if they can only spare one. I suppose they must have distributed the other battalions throughout the world to add to the chaos.” Aziraphale tutted shaking his head.

“I know I just said I’d trust you. But how..._how_ can we possibly protect the Eye from five thousand angel soldiers with only the three of us to defend it?”

The Bentley honked and drove up of its own accord on Crowley’s other side, revving its engine and playing We Will Rock You at top volume.

“Okay, that’s…unexpected,” Crowley said.

“We’re better off staying grounded,” Aziraphale reminded him. “If we fly, we’ll be mobbed. If we force them to come to us—”

“They’ll have to come just a few at a time. I get it,” Crowley growled, his fists on fire. “But that won’t stop them from taking out the witches.”

“Good point. We’ll have to distract them then.”

“With what? Another illusion?”

“It’s doubtful they’d fall for that a second time.”

Then Aziraphale felt a shiver go down his spine, as if a chill wind had passed at his back.

“Thank…whoever,” Crowley said. “Feels like bicycle-girl got that barrier up.”

“Barrier?”

“The one she was talking to Adam about holding at Tadfield Airbase. Pretty sure I just felt it go up behind us.”

“Are we under it, though?” Newt asked.

Crowley shook his head. “She’s conserving her strength, I’m sure. Plus, she’ll have to drop it once the spell is cast in order to let the earth go through the Eye,” Crowley said. “Which means we still need to take out that regiment.”

“What are they waiting for anyway?” Newt asked.

Then just at that moment, the earth boiled up around them as a horde of demons climbed out of Hell to join the angel regiment, reducing the already damaged park lawn to a giant mud pit.

“Fuuuck,” Crowley said. “It’s the blighters from Tadfield.”

“The what, now?” Aziraphale asked.

“They’re the horde I rescued the humans from.”

“You…you rescued…from…?” Aziraphale asked getting progressively cross with every splutter. “Your _side mission_ was to go to Tadfield and fight off a demon horde _all by yourself_? When were you going to mention that little fact? After you were discorporated and trapped forever in Hell?”

Crowley turned his gaze away from the now massive offensive line to give Aziraphale an incredulous look.

“Really? You’re going to yell at _me_ when you were most certainly _not_ at the bookshop when I got back, and then somehow, for some bloody reason, when you _did_ decide to return, you _crashed_ _the Bentley_ through the bloody _wall of the building?_”

“That is not the point. The point is—“

“The _point_ is you’re a bleeding hypocrite, is the p—”

“Guys!” Newt broke in. “Can we please put a pin in this?”

Aziraphale huffed, even more cross. “This discussion is not over,” he said to Crowley, who glared at him from behind his sunglasses.

Then Gabriel popped into position at the head of the regiment of angels. And he was not alone. He’d brought a small group of humans with him, mostly children, likely because they were smaller and easier to control.

Crowley hissed a few expletives, and Aziraphale’s ire at his…boyfriend?…he made a mental note to sort out labels later…diminished. Gabriel, an angel of Heaven, had every intention of sacrificing those humans. Crowley would never. Not in a million years.

And neither would Aziraphale. Because what he hadn’t explicitly told Crowley—and come to think of it, perhaps he was a bit of a hypocrite, all things considered—was that the sacrifice was _not,_ in fact, required to be human, at least, not this time. He’d told as much to Adam, though not in so many words. God had entrusted Aziraphale with this mission, and it seemed clear to him that the only person who could satisfy the tithe was the person elected to the role. It had to be him, plain and simple.

“Traitor,” Gabriel said—well, spat, more like. “Behold, God’s Retribution.”

“Looks more like a kindergarten class to me,” Crowley said. “You changing careers, then?”

“No one’s talking to you, serpent,” Gabriel snarled. Then he gestured dramatically, pulling a bright silver headsman’s axe from elsewhere into this plane. He grabbed the nearest child and laid the sharp edge along the column of her throat. “Unless you would like a demonstration of the expendability of human life.”

Crowley snarled back but managed to keep his retort to himself.

“What exactly are you trying to accomplish, Gabriel?” Aziraphale asked, though he had a pretty good idea.

“I’m ending this world, Aziraphale. For the glory of God. Her Great Plan _shall_ be accomplished, no matter who stands in Her way.”

“Funny thing, though, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Aziraphale said, taking a small step forward, as if he were speaking conspiratorially with a friend. “But _She_ is not here.”

“Of course, She’s not here! We are Her foot soldiers. We enact Her will. Or had you forgotten?”

“And yet…as we established over a week ago…you don’t actually know what Her will is. You haven’t asked. No one has.”

“She does not communicate to lesser beings. We are expected to know and to act. We do not question! If you question Heaven, you Fall!” He let go of the little girl long enough to gesture at Crowley during this speech. The girl scampered back into the knot of younglings, easing the tightness in Aziraphale’s chest.

“You are wrong,” Aziraphale insisted. “She communicated with me.”

“Lies!”

“It’s not a lie. You took me to Her Garden yourself! Or had _you_ forgotten?”

“Blasphemy!”

“She told me Heaven has strayed. She said that she wants to _save_ the world. Not end it!”

“Heretic!” Gabriel screamed, practically foaming at the mouth.

“Oh, please,” Aziraphale said, whipping his wings into this metaphysical plane to show everyone gathered that he had _not_, in fact, Fallen. Not yet, anyway.

Lord Beelzebub joined Gabriel then, emerging from the ground on the other side of the archangel from where the children cowered in a clump.

“We don’t much care what _She_ wants anyway,” they said. “We demons will have our war regardless. We don’t care who we have to kill.”

The demons roared their agreement at this pronouncement. And Aziraphale didn’t have a reasonable argument for that. He had no idea what would sway them all away from their bloodlust.

“And what will you lot do after all the humans are gone, eh? Sit around contemplating your navels?” Crowley broke in, saving Aziraphale as usual.

“What?” Beelzebub said.

“When there’s nothing left but a blasted lump of nothing, what will you do with the rest of eternity?”

“Torture the dead, obviously,” Beelzebub answered.

“And how long till that grows dull? No new humans. Same old souls over and over. Without the continuation of human advancement, where will the fresh, new trendy sins originate? We’ll only ever be stuck with the same handful we have now. Is that really enough for you? You don’t want any new addictive technologies, no new lustful kinks, no new methods and motives for murder? Just seems a bit of a waste to me.”

Nothing but silence from the assembled demon horde now as they turned this over in their tiny minds.

“Enough talking!” Gabriel commanded, spreading his own wings and launching into the air. “A—”

Before he could finish giving the order, though, Aziraphale snapped his fingers, gambling on the chance that Gabriel hadn’t yet erected his own personal protections. It would only delay Gabriel a few minutes before he popped himself back here from wherever Aziraphale sent him, but it would unsettle him and the regiment enough to get them off to a rocky start. And astonishingly, it worked. Gabriel’s hubris knew no bounds, it appeared.

Quickly, before Gabriel recovered his command, Aziraphale established miracle-proof armor onto himself, Crowley, Newt, and even the Bentley. It would be a distraction for him to maintain it under the barrage of offensive miracles, and the invisible armor wouldn’t protect their corporeal bodies from being harmed by weapons. But there was nothing for it. For them to have even a possibility of succeeding, they needed shielding from Heaven, and Hell’s, powers.

Lord Beelzebub rolled their eyes disgustedly. “Attack,” they said, snapping their fingers to manifest a flame-thrower into their hands.

As one, the angel regiment and the demon horde rushed Aziraphale, Crowley, Newt, and the Bentley, weapons raised.

Aziraphale and Crowley leapt away from each other as a ball of lightning shot between them. Aziraphale fell into Newt while Crowley bumped up against the Bentley. Crowley’s hands burst into flame, and he shot back at the angel that had sent the lightning.

Then a demon with a jagged staff struck at Newt. Aziraphale rolled to the side as the Flaming Sword rose to fend off the demon’s attack. Newt jumped to his feet, relaxing enough to flow with the Sword as it parried every blow.

For its part, the Bentley circled Aziraphale, Crowley, and Newt tightly, running into and over any immortal that tried to get to them. Its sides and roof were quickly scorched, paint bubbling, dents appearing in its fenders whenever it managed to hit something. And all the while it blasted _Keep yourself alive, Come on, keep yourself alive, It’ll take you all your time and money, Honey you’ll survive._

One angel managed to get through the line, though, silver-tipped spear drawn back and prepared to skewer Aziraphale. Aziraphale recognized the weapon instantly—the Holy Lance of Antioch, with the blood of Christ still on its tip.

_This must be it_, he thought. _It’s time_.

He straightened to his full height, heart pounding with a desperate desire to be anywhere else. He spared a glance for Crowley, silently apologizing, as he stood his ground.

“No!” Crowley yelled from where he tussled hand to hand with a demon twice his size. “Aziraphale!”

But before the angel with the Lance had a chance to use it, Raph dropped down on him from above, compromising his aim. The Lance clattered to the ground several yards to Aziraphale’s left. Raph slammed the angel’s head into the curb separating the lawn from the circle drive. The unknown angel crumpled into unconsciousness, and Raph banished him to who knew where.

“Raph! What are you doing?” Aziraphale said.

“Saving your ass, obviously!” he said, out of breath and clearly angry. “How dare you.”

“Angel!” Crowley yelled as he hurled himself at Aziraphale. “Are you all right? What were you _thinking_?”

“I…I…” But Aziraphale couldn’t get the words out. The middle of a battle was no time to argue strategy. “Behind you!” he yelled at Crowley just as the Bentley took out the troll-like demon that had raised its cudgel to bludgeon them.

“Whatever it is you think you’re doing, don’t,” Raph said to Aziraphale, sending his own ball of lightning upward into a knot of attacking angels. “You are the symbol of the resistance. We need you, or all of this will be for nothing.”

“All of what? What are you talking about?”

Raph pointed wordlessly past the Bentley’s self-scribed frontline to a massive battle Aziraphale hadn’t even noticed was taking place at the far end of the lawn.

Angels were fighting other angels. Angels wearing tartan sashes. Angels bleeding, dying, fighting, and holding the multitude of Heaven’s host at bay to protect the Eye, to protect the earth, to protect Aziraphale. And they were…wearing his colors.

Aziraphale’s gaze darted back to Raph, for the first time noticing his suit jacket, smeared with blood that was hopefully not his own, a matching tartan to Aziraphale’s bow tie.

“Raph…” Aziraphale said wonderingly.

Raph shook his head, still obviously angry, and brushed past Aziraphale. He picked up the Holy Lance and then stepped back, handing the weapon to Aziraphale.

“Defend yourself. You owe me that.”

Aziraphale nodded contritely. It had been foolish of him to assume. He would know when it was time. There would be no doubt.

“Raphael…” Aziraphale said again. But ‘thank you’ was such a grossly inadequate statement that Aziraphale was at a loss as to how to finish his thought.

Wordlessly, Raphael genuflected to Aziraphale, sinking to his right knee, signing the cross, and bowing his head.

Aziraphale froze, horrified. But before he could protest, Raph had risen to his feet again and jumped into the air to defend Aziraphale and Crowley from above.

“Holy shit,” Newt said, covered in some kind of ichor from the demon he’d just discorporated. “What the hell was that about?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer but nothing came out. He shook his head instead, bewildered.

“It’s starting,” Crowley said grimly, pointing to the Eye.

And indeed something had changed. Whatever power Anathema had been hoping Adam could amplify had seemed to do the trick. Energy crackled through the air as Anathema’s barrier suddenly collapsed, replaced by the much more jarring energy building along the circumference of the Eye.

But with the collapse of the barrier, the Eye had become vulnerable.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Crowley said as the demon horde broke ranks and ran for the Eye, abandoning the battle with the rebel angels in favor of attacking the witches.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, gesturing with the Lance toward Gabriel. “You have to rescue those children before he has a chance to slaughter them.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll deal with the demons attacking the Eye.”

Crowley nodded. Then turning to where the Bentley was reversing to run over a group of demons for a second or third time while blasting Another One Bites the Dust, Crowley whistled piercingly. The Bentley obediently shifted into drive and rolled over to where Crowley waited. Crowley hopped onto the hood as the Bentley circled past him, heading in the direction of the children who huddled under and around a park bench.

“I can’t go near the Eye. I might disrupt the electronics,” Newt said.

“We’ll have to risk it,” Aziraphale said, whacking an angel in the ribs with the side of the Lance to prevent her from hacking Newt’s head off. “We need to guard each other.”

Newt sighed but followed Aziraphale as he dashed to the nearest capsule, where several demons had already clambered onto the roof.

Aziraphale miracled Newt inside the capsule to fend off any demons that managed to break in while he flew to the roof. He poked the demons with the Lance, flinging them off with a wound to the shoulder, a knock to the head, a threatening thrust toward the midsection that the demon only narrowly avoided by falling off the roof of the capsule entirely.

He couldn’t rest on his victory long, though, as another capsule beset by demons suddenly shorted out of magical energy, the ley-line leading to it from the center of the Eye flickering out as it died.

Aziraphale miracled Newt out of the capsule they’d managed to save and catapulted him into the capsule that had gone dark. Newt, not expecting the transfer, yelled his head off the entire way while Aziraphale called out a quick but sincere apology.

Energy from the capsules on either side of the darkened capsule siphoned out to close the gap, but the damage had been done. The Eye was failing. The net of energy that criss-crossed the circle was snapping in and out, causing Aziraphale’s ears to pop.

Then another capsule went dark from demon interference. Aziraphale changed his trajectory to intercept this new threat to the witches’ efforts. But before he could get there, Gabriel appeared with a wailing baby in his arms.

“Enough!” he yelled to Aziraphale. “This ends now!”

“Gabriel, please! You don’t know what you’re doing. This isn’t necessary! It isn’t what She wants!”

“I don’t fucking care anymore, traitor. It’s what I want! It’s what was meant to be!”

“You can’t be serious,” Aziraphale gaped at him. “You can’t mean that your pride is more important than people’s lives!”

“All it takes is one life. One life and it’s over.”

Gabriel held the baby aloft in one hand, his sword at the ready in the other, as he hovered just outside the very center of the Eye, flapping his great white wings to stay airborne.

Aziraphale let himself drift down, closer to Gabriel. If he could just _reason_ with the archangel, maybe no one would have to die. Maybe he could prevent the End without a sacrifice.

“Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.”

“Shut UP!” Gabriel said, shaking his head.

“You wrote that, Gabriel. Don’t you remember?”

“I said, SHUT UP. I will not listen to your lies, fiend.”

Ignoring Gabriel’s insults, Aziraphale searched his heart and found only compassion for Gabriel’s pain. He was struggling against the doubt Aziraphale had planted, Aziraphale was certain of it.

“Give me the baby, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said softly, banishing the Lance and drifting closer. “Give me the baby, and I will be your sacrifice.”

“It doesn’t work like that! You think I don’t know that a willing sacrifice _saves_ the world? Get back!”

Aziraphale stopped drifting, heart in his throat. Gabriel held all the cards now. One toss, and the baby would die. The world would end. And, as Raph had said, it would all be for nothing.

_Aziraphale_, he heard in his mind. _Aziraphale, it’s Anathema. We’re losing Adam. He’s fading. Do something. Please, help us._

The power flickered again along the Eye. This was the moment. He felt it in every fiber of his being. He only wished he could see Crowley one last time.

And as if God Herself had answered this unspoken prayer, Crowley appeared in the air above Gabriel, glasses flashing in the sun.

“To the world,” he said to Aziraphale in an agonized voice as he flashed dark like a negative.

He reappeared instantly in his serpent form, falling directly onto Gabriel and twisting his sinuous body around the archangel.

“Get off m—” Gabriel started before Crowley tightened a coil around the archangel’s neck, cutting off his air supply.

Gabriel’s eyes popped wide and he dropped the baby in his attempt to dislodge Crowley.

Aziraphale dived for the child but was beaten to the rescue by Raph, who snagged the baby by her onesie and lifted her free of the melee.

_Aziraphale, please. The earth is slipping. We’re losing it!_

Just one more minute. One more minute…

Aziraphale looked for Crowley, to make sure he was safe, and found him plummeting to the ground with Gabriel caught tight in his coils. Gabriel tried in vain to flap his wings, but one of them had been broken by Crowley’s grip, the other bled freely from where Crowley had sunk his fangs. Still, Gabriel managed to slow his and Crowley’s descent enough that neither would be discorporated from the fall.

“To the world,” Aziraphale whispered, knowing Crowley had no way of hearing him.

Then he turned to face his own fate, to the exact center of the Eye, where he knew without a doubt he needed to go. If Adam, a half-immortal with fading powers, could command the energy of an entire node, then Aziraphale, a full immortal with eons to amass his power, could supply the energy of a sun.

It was time for Aziraphale to Fall.

And Fall he did. The streams of energy hit him from every angle at once. And he felt it. Everything. Every light. Every darkness. Every hope. Every despair. He pulled the earth with him. Heaven and Hell. All creation followed as he spun through the center of the Eye. He felt the emptiness of the new plane fill to bursting with life. With God. He felt the old plane collapse under its own weight, like a black hole. And he spared a thought to wonder if this had happened before. If countless existences had followed this same pattern. Birth. Destruction. Rebirth.

And then he felt his edges blur. His consciousness disintegrating. He felt sadness, of course, but also joy. The world would go on, so some small part of him would as well.

His last thought before his mind dissolved completely was of a demon with golden eyes and a gentle touch. And then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scripture Aziraphale quotes is from 1 Corinthians 13:4-7 King James Version (KJV)
> 
> Queen song that the Bentley quotes is from Keep Yourself Alive


	28. Holy Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A generous helping of ouch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over-the-top-angsty Crowley in this one, guys, sorry. Extra warning for suicide ideation, just for this chapter. Nothing graphic, but he does consider it. Things get better in the next chapter, I promise!

He hated the world. Hated it. Every single bloody inch of it. Hated the smiles. Hated the tears. Absolutely bloody _loathed_ the touches from random strangers after the excruciating vertigo had let up and the enemy armies had ceded the field to the rebels.

One fucking horrid witch had had the temerity to try and help him up after he’d very nearly discorporated Gabriel, landed with a squishy thud on the pavement, and then painfully morphed back into his human-ish form. He’d expected her to recoil when he hissed at her, but she’d merely shrugged and backed away.

Raphael had touched down next to him, child still in his arms, tears streaming down his stupidly perfect face, and Crowley nearly exploded with rage. He’d scrambled backward like a crab, anything to get away from the vision of what Aziraphale had sacrificed his life for…what Crowley had let him sacrifice his life for. But Crowley hadn’t gotten far, being still injured and out of sorts, when the weight of an eternity without Aziraphale settled onto his chest and he crumpled beneath it.

Then Raph was there, child gone, kneeling next to Crowley as the demon gasped and shook.

“I don’t know what to do now,” Raph said, weeping. “I don’t know what to do.”

And as helpless as it sounded, somehow it was the only thing Crowley could have possibly heard and understood in that moment. Not that he answered. He turned his face into the asphalt and curled into a ball, wanting more than anything to cease to exist.

Anathema’s voice cut through the noises of triumph that grated across his soul like sandpaper.

“Stand back, everybody! Give us some room, please!”

Then she was there, moving his limbs, examining his wounds, cleaning him up.

“You, there!” she shouted to some random bystander. “Get Gabriel out of here… I don’t care where. Just not here.”

“You were in the bookshop,” Raph said to Anathema. “Who are you?”

“Anathema Device, head witch in charge, apparently.” Then to Crowley she said, “Can you get up?”

A croaking “leave me be” was the absolute best he could manage.

“I need to know if you’ve broken any bones,” she insisted.

In that moment, he very nearly banished her to Antarctica. His next automatic thought was that Aziraphale wouldn’t approve, as if Aziraphale were still around to harangue him about not giving in to his baser instincts. And the reminder that Aziraphale was dead—not just dead but _gone—_was the unnecessary kick to the gut after he’d already been completely laid out that nearly sent Crowley over the fucking edge.

Raph must have somehow followed the trajectory of his thoughts, because the angel grabbed Crowley’s arm in the split second before he banished himself to Antarctica, and, with his own counter-miracle, prevented Crowley doing just that.

“He wouldn’t want this,” Raph said, his voice like gravel over a dry river bed. “He wouldn’t want this. He wouldn’t.”

Raph was barely holding himself together if he was repeating everything multiple times. He couldn’t help Crowley. Nobody could help Crowley.

“Agnes is gone,” Anathema said, sounding as if she were weeping now as well. And if this news was some attempt to distract Crowley from his torment, it wasn’t working. He couldn’t care less. “The pendulum exploded when we were trying to keep the portal open. Before— Well. She’s gone. I thought you should know.”

It took hours, but finally everyone left. One by one. Returning to their ruined homes, their nearly destroyed planet. There was no wishing it all away this time. This time, they’d have to work to fix it. Some part of Crowley, the part infected by Aziraphale, he was sure, hoped they’d fix it better.

Because there was no Aziraphale any more to save it for them.

When Crowley finally uncurled from where he’d collapsed and pushed himself painfully to his feet, the only semi-living thing in the park besides him was the Bentley. It had apparently waited for him, silently, letting him be.

He got in and shut the door, remembering how, just that morning, he’d rested his hands on the steering wheel while waiting for Aziraphale’s signal to drive them out of the bookshop. Had that really only been this morning? It seemed like a lifetime ago. And he supposed it was. Aziraphale’s lifetime.

Only then did he thoroughly break down, sobbing uncontrollably into the Bentley’s dashboard. For its part, the Bentley didn’t move, didn’t try to console him with some infernal song, didn’t expect anything at all from him. Which is how, ironically, Crowley managed to pull enough of himself together to drive back to the bookshop—the only place he could stand to be.

* * *

_Three days later_

Crowley sat in the Bentley, parked in the foot-traffic portion of the Westminster Bridge, looking out over the water to the non-functional hunk of metal that used to be the London Eye. People visited it every day, often leaving offerings at its base for the people who’d died saving them, both human and angel.

But no one visited it now, at night. Most of the electricity was still spotty in the city, and the patches of gloom like the one the Bentley sat in were still hazardous, even though the demons had retired to Hell and the angels, for the most part, to Heaven. After the end of days, it’d take a while to build up the infrastructure again. Especially when the first priority was burying the dead.

Crowley took a long pull from the fifth of vodka that had been resting in the passenger’s seat. Aziraphale had never really cared for vodka unless it was mixed with something, which is what made it the perfect drink for Crowley that night. It was the least likely of all the alcohols to bring Aziraphale to mind. Though, come to think of it, vodka being the angel’s least favorite had brought him to mind immediately.

“Fuck,” Crowley said, and took another long drink. At this rate, he’d need a second bottle in less than a quarter hour. Which, doing the maths, meant that he’d be out of alcohol in fifteen minutes. “Fuck,” he said again, smacking the dash.

The Bentley snorted at him with a blip of static before going quiet again. It had been playing less music of late. Not that Crowley had been driving around much in the last three days. He’d cleared out his flat, moved what he cared about, which wasn’t much, to the bookshop. Nobody bothered him there. Turned out rare books weren’t tops on anyone’s hierarchy of post-apocalyptic needs.

After another long swig from the vodka, Crowley reached over to the passenger seat for a different container altogether. A tartan thermos. He held it in his lap, not so much gazing at it as devouring it with his eyes. The thing had belonged to _him_. Had been a gift and a burden. Had almost ended their friendship and then miraculously brought them closer together. And now, it was inescapably empty.

For the first time, he regretted killing Ligur—not that Ligur was dead, per se, but that Crowley had wasted all that beautiful life-ending holy water on him. The bastard was hardly worthy of it. And now, here he was, back at square one, needing it again and without an angel to give it to him.

He supposed he could ring Shadwell. See if the man was still game for a heist. But then he’d heard the man had retired. And anyway, the churches that still existed were few and far between. It was doubtful he’d find a font of untouched holy water post-apocalypse.

He took out his mobile anyway, scrolling to Shadwell’s number. But before dialing, he scrolled up again to Aziraphale’s name. He couldn’t help it. It was a compulsion. Any time he saw the angel’s name, he’d catch a small glimpse of some whimsical Aziraphale-expression in his mind’s eye. It was worth the agony that inevitably followed. Every time.

On impulse, he tapped the number for the bookshop and listened to it ring on the other end. And ring. And ring. And ring. Aziraphale had never bothered to put in an answering machine. He hadn’t even left Crowley that much. Not even that.

He hung up again after several minutes. Drank more. Then called again. Then drank more, draining the bottle, as predicted, not more than a quarter-hour past.

The Bentley clicked on a song then, soft and low, though Crowley didn’t recognize it at first. He closed his eyes, tracing the melody through all the ages of his long memory. And there it was, or rather they were. The Bentley had managed to mash up Queen’s Who Wants to Live Forever with Schubert’s Ave Maria, a fitting mix of both Crowley and Aziraphale—two things that didn’t go together and yet somehow brought out the best parts of each other.

_To the world_, Crowley had said. Of all the things he’d wanted to say in that moment, he’d said _to the fucking world_.

But as much as he hated himself for it, it was the only thing he could have said that would have indicated he’d made his choice. He’d seen Aziraphale facing off against Gabriel. He’d seen the Eye going dark. He’d seen the path Aziraphale meant to take. And he’d _felt_ it. The exact emotion that Agnes had shown him when he’d held the pendulum in his hand. And he knew. He knew he had to choose to either take out Gabriel and save the world, or steal Aziraphale and run away to the stars. He’d come so close to choosing the latter. But that damned shadow of hope. The hope that he’d felt when holding the pendulum withered away when he floated toward Aziraphale.

In the end, he’d actually chosen Aziraphale by choosing to take out Gabriel instead. He knew this. He knew that he’d had no real choice. Not really. If he loved, if he _trusted_, Aziraphale, then the choice had already been made for him. So…_to the world_. And every bloody moment afterward had been a lesson in how much pain Crowley could actually endure. And he hated himself for that most of all. For being able to endure it. For still indulging that sliver of hope.

It had been three days. Even Christ had been back by the third day.

“Damn you, Agnes,” he said to nobody. “Why did you get to die? Why did you get to die when I can’t?”

He cut off the thought, putting the empty vodka bottle to his lips before remembering he’d already drunk it all.

_Bugger_.

The passenger’s-side door of the Bentley swung open, and Anathema slid into the seat, shutting the door again behind her. It was a mark of his altered state that he didn’t startle at the unexpected visit.

She handed him a paper bag with something cylindrical and heavy inside.

“I figured you were running low.”

He pulled out a bottle of scotch. Didn’t recognize the label.

“It’s all I could find,” she said, unapologetically. “Most of the good stuff’s already gone. Besides, I haven’t got time to search for Glenlivet just to get you wasted. But. I do owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything, human.”

Anathema ignored his snarling and settled into the seat, slouching a bit and laying her head back as if she intended to stay awhile.

“I didn’t ask for company,” he growled.

“I didn’t ask for permission to stay,” she retorted, grabbing the scotch back from him and unscrewing the cap. She took a generous swallow of it and made some rather unpleasant-sounding gagging noises. Then she handed it back to him. “I don’t know how you guys can drink that stuff. Tastes like fermented goat spit to me.”

“Does the trick, though,” Crowley said, knocking back his own swallow.

They sat in silence for an hour, passing the bottle back and forth while the Bentley played its dirge for Aziraphale.

“How goes the prophecy biz?” he asked finally, after half the bottle had gone the way of the vodka.

Anathema groaned. “Awful. I hate it.” She took another swig from the bottle. “I have more empathy for Agnes now than I ever did growing up.”

“I’d ask if I should be worried, but you know I don’t give a fuck, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

He didn’t expect an apology, and she didn’t give one. S’Probably why they got on so well.

She handed him the bottle. “And the bookshop?” she asked.

“The same.”

He didn’t elaborate about whether it was the same in that he hated it or in that he didn’t give a fuck, because it was both.

He drank his turn and handed the bottle back to her. “And Adam?”

She belched and took another swig. “Recovering, thank Christ. But it’ll take a while.” She belched again and handed the bottle back. “If I never see another apocalypse again, it will be too soon.”

Crowley ratified that statement with another several swallows of scotch.

“Raph’s been to see you, yeah?” she asked.

“Every day.”

“You know he’s checking up on you for…”

“You can say his name.”

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley let the syllables hang in the air between them. It was like scratching an itch, hearing them. It only made him itch more, but the temporary relief was worth it.

Silence fell again as they finished the bottle. Crowley, who was getting quite sauced at this point, spared a moment to be impressed that Anathema had kept up with him as much as she had.

“Need me to drop you somewhere, bicycle-girl?”

“Nah,” she said, slurring the word. “My ride’s back there.”

She jerked her thumb backward, gesturing out the back windscreen at the blue auto-monstrosity that Newt drove with Newt behind the wheel, struggling to read a book with a penlight.

“Ughhh,” she said, rubbing her temples. “Tomorrow’s going to be a doozy.” She got out of the Bentley, stumbling a little.

“Oi,” he said before she staggered away. “Thanks…for the scotch.”

She looked at him with a solemn expression. “‘Course. And Crowley?” Though it came out more like _crrroulaay_. “Keep your phone on.”

Crowley couldn’t promise that, so he didn’t, but she didn’t seem to notice. She zig-zagged her way back to Newt, got into the passenger seat and immediately reclined her seat as far as back as it would go. Newt waved awkwardly, then backed out from behind the Bentley and curved out onto the road and away, no doubt headed back to Tadfield.

Crowley tossed the empty bottle into the back of the Bentley to join the growing collection of drained liquor containers.

“Satan, I thought she’d never leave,” Hastur said as he appeared in the seat Anathema had recently vacated.

“What do you want?” Crowley asked, though more out of habit than really caring. If Hastur was there to murder him, he’d be doing Crowley a favor.

“Just to tell you that I kept my people out of it,” he said. “Won’t raise a hand to help you, but…won’t raise a hand to help Gabriel either.”

Crowley pursed his lips, thinking. “You still have a connection to Michael?”

Hastur blinked, nonplussed. “May do. Why?”

Crowley considered this for a full minute before responding. Then he handed the other demon the tartan thermos.

“Would you be willing to help me if it meant I’d disappear forever?”


	29. Loophole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes back to a garden, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple farewells, a couple of reunions. Lots of tears--some of them mine, tbh--but the angst is a bit less, as promised. :-)

When Aziraphale’s consciousness rematerialized, it felt delicious and soft, like someone running fingers through his hair—pleasantly brain buzzy, meditative, and hmmm. Lovely.

He stretched his arms up over his head. If he hadn’t remembered everything with crystal clarity, he would have thought he was simply waking from one of his rare naps. A profoundly restful one at that.

Oddly, even though he remembered absolutely everything, he couldn’t summon even one single iota of worry over the people he’d left behind. Not even Crowley. Something about his new state of being precluded negative emotions such as worry, it appeared. It was…nice. It was as if he’d woken up wrapped in the Ineffable Plan. He knew in his bones that everything, no matter what happened, would be all right.

He opened his eyes then to see the same garden where he’d met God what seemed ages ago at this point. God Herself was there, he could feel it, though She still lacked an embodied form. Or perhaps the garden was Her body. It hardly mattered. She was present.

And She wasn’t the only one.

Agnes Nutter, in what Aziraphale assumed was her given corporeal form, stood next to him, blissful expression on her face, taking in the scenery around them as Aziraphale had done.

“Well, I suppose we have arrived,” Agnes said. “The Sanctum is what we witches call it. The Heart of God.”

“Did you foresee this?” Aziraphale asked, though even as he voiced the words, he could somehow tell that he didn’t actually need to speak. That if he wanted meaning to transfer from his consciousness to Agnes’s, or God’s for that matter, he merely had to desire it.

“As it happens, I did not,” Agnes replied. “I cannot See the Sanctum. No one can.”

“So no one knows we’re here?”

“We know we’re here. As does the Almighty, of course.”

“I feel…curiously devoid of anxiety. I am not even anxious that I don’t feel anxious anymore. Shouldn’t I feel anxious?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Agnes said. “I think we have earned our rest, or we wouldn’t be here.”

“I didn’t realize humans could end up in God’s garden. I’ve been to the Heavenly afterlife for humans, and this wasn’t it.”

“I do believe we are the only ones here. Perhaps God merely wants a word with us?”

“Hi, there,” said a man with long hair, a goatee, and a goofy smile. He looked familiar, but Aziraphale couldn’t immediately place him. “I’d have been here straight away, but I’ve found it’s better to let people come back to consciousness gradually, at their own pace. You can’t feel fear here, but it can still be a bit startling to have someone talking at you from the get go.”

“Oh, thank you, I suppose,” Aziraphale said, extending his hand. “I’m Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and this is Agnes Nutter, Prophet and Witch.”

The man gamely shook Aziraphale’s hand. “Nice to meet you, though I know who you are, of course. Not many arrive here, and we usually know they’re coming before they do.”

“So we are in God’s Sanctum?” Agnes said, and Aziraphale realized that this was the first time he’d heard Agnes ask a question.

“It has many names, none of them accurate,” the man said. “The closest I’ve heard, though, is Nirvana.”

“Are you…Buddha?” Aziraphale asked.

“Oh, goodness, no. Sorry, I should have introduced myself properly. I’m Jay. I’m kind of like the camp counselor around here.”

“Camp counselor?” Agnes said, awkwardly sounding out the words.

“I greet people, go over the basics, answer questions, make sure the craft table stays neat. You know.”

“The basics?” Aziraphale asked.

Jay gestured them past a curtain of hanging vines into a rolling meadow full of flowers and fruit and birds. A butterfly floated up and landed on a branch next to Aziraphale’s ear, and it was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen.

A small group of people from all walks of life, all genders, all representations of human and nonhuman beings, from all time periods the world had ever known, lounged in twos or threes around the meadow, talking and eating and laughing. Idyllic didn’t even begin to describe it, because the absence of care, of the ever-looming presence of death, was something he’d never seen in a human’s face before. It looked strange and good but also sad, in a way. And for the first time since he’d arrived, Aziraphale felt a sense of loss. He didn’t need to look far to find the source, as it was in his own heart.

“Everyone, if I may—this is Agnes and Aziraphale. They’re new.”

General exclamations of welcome echoed kindly through the group. Everyone seemed most glad to see them, which was an experience Aziraphale rarely had. He found he rather liked it.

Jay showed them over to a nearby stone table with comfortable, mossy cushions surrounding it. At the far end of the table, a man with a long flowing mustache appeared to be completing a crossword puzzle with a pen.

“When you say _craft_, do you mean witchcraft?” Agnes asked.

“No, not at all,” Jay said with a smile. “More like friendship bracelets and lanyard key chains. We may paint some wood chips later, if you like.”

Agnes looked adorably confused but also a little relieved. She seemed to be adjusting well to retirement, which Aziraphale realized, was an ideal analogy for what they were experiencing.

“So…we just stay here then?” Aziraphale asked. “Forever?”

“Most people do.”

“Only most people? Where do the others go?”

“Some choose to go back.”

“Back to earth?” Agnes said, looking perturbed by the thought. “Whatever for?”

Jay shrugged. “I went back for a while. Still had some unfinished business.”

“Who are these people?” Aziraphale asked, gesturing to their new companions. “Why are they here?”

“They are like you. Chosen by God.”

“Chosen for what?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.”

“Look, the truth is, all of us here loved greater than it was possible to love just for the sake of love itself. We moved the needle for the world in some small way toward happiness. And we paid dearly for it.”

“So this place is a reward of some kind?”

“Not exactly. I mean, yes, some people feel that way when they arrive. But it’s more of a coming home after a long, difficult struggle. A resting place, a shelter, a memory of love.”

Aziraphale’s heart twinged at that. He continued to feel only contentment and happiness, but he also knew his memory of love was not here.

“And some choose to leave?” Aziraphale said.

“One or two,” Jay said, his eyes sparkling, as if he knew something he wasn’t saying. “Why do you ask?”

Aziraphale looked at Agnes, who already seemed to be leaning toward the crossword puzzle the man at the other end of the table was engaged in. The man smiled fondly at her and moved closer so that she could see.

“I think I would like to…go back. How do I do that?”

“I thought you might,” Jay said. “I can always tell. Follow me.”

So Aziraphale bid farewell to Agnes, bowing low over her hand, and then followed Jay out of the meadow and through a small wooded area to a familiar looking path.

“Follow the path to the end.”

“Thank you, Jay,” Aziraphale said, extending his hand again. “It’s been a pleasure.”

Jay ignored his hand and brought the angel in for a hug. “We’ll meet again, brother.” Then he waved him off and headed back toward the meadow.

Aziraphale followed the path through some truly beautiful plants. Crowley would lose his mind over the palms alone. And thinking of Crowley only made his steps more sure as he moved forward…or, he supposed, backward…in the direction of the exit.

He knew instantly the moment he reached it. The pool, the mossy bench, even the date tree were all the same as he remembered. This time, he had no patience for undressing. He climbed into the pool fully clothed. He was reaching up for a date when he heard Her voice in his head.

NO NEED FOR THAT THIS TIME, AZIRAPHALE, She said.

“Oh?”

WELL, FEEL FREE TO HAVE ONE IF YOU WANT, BUT THE FIRST WAS ENOUGH TO CREATE THE— OH, OKAY.

Aziraphale had already plucked one from the tree and eaten it. It was just as delicious as he remembered it.

“Do you mind if I take one with me?”

God snorted in amusement.

BETTER NOT, She said.

Aziraphale shrugged and ate another just because.

SO…YOU HAVE CHOSEN TO RETURN TO EARTH?

“Yes, please.”

MAY I ASK WHY?

“Because…” Aziraphale trailed off, at a loss as to how to characterize what he was missing. Crowley was the easy answer, but it was deeper than that. Crowley was Crowley, and Aziraphale loved him dearly. But, more than that, he simply...wasn’t...whole without him. He couldn’t fulfill the promises he’d made if he stayed. He couldn’t have the promises made to him fulfilled. He could be content, at peace, free from worry. But he couldn’t be happy here. Not completely.

“Because I left myself elsewhere,” he said finally, knowing that it sounded ridiculous.

_Love_, the pure, abiding light of the divine, flowed into Aziraphale at this answer. As if God were delighted by it.

VERY WELL. BUT I HAVE ONE REQUEST.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said, sinking up to his nose in the water again.

IT’S NOT AS DIRE AS LAST TIME, I PROMISE.

Aziraphale sat back up slowly.

I JUST THINK IT MIGHT BE TIME FOR A LITTLE…ORGANIZATIONAL RESTRUCTURING.

“Organizational restructuring?”

I THINK I MIGHT HAVE HAD IT THE WRONG WAY AROUND.

“How do you mean?”

WHAT WOULD YOU SAY TO A BIT OF A PROMOTION?

* * *

When Aziraphale swooshed out of the pool into Heaven’s lobby, his head was ringing with the Almighty’s proposition. He’d told Her he needed to think about it, but the truth was, he needed to talk to Crowley before he committed. He wasn’t sure if his idea for modifications to Her proposal was something the demon would even consider, let alone approve of.

But first things first: he needed to find Crowley. And now that he’d returned to reality, the dreamy contentment of the Sanctum was rapidly fading. His anxiety had returned with a vengeance, especially when his thoughts turned to how Crowley must have reacted when Aziraphale disappeared.

So he snapped his fingers, grateful that he no longer needed to avoid miracles, and popped directly into Crowley’s flat. He realized belatedly that it was a gross invasion of privacy to drop into the flat directly, but he’d apologize for startling Crowley later.

However, when Aziraphale reappeared in Crowley’s flat, it was empty. So empty, in fact, that the space looked as if it had never been lived in at all. No furniture, no plants…not even a kitchen. It was a literal empty loft, and Aziraphale immediately panicked. What if time worked differently in the Sanctum? What if hundreds of years had passed and Crowley had forgotten all about him?

With another snap of his fingers, Aziraphale popped out onto the street in what was left of the fading daylight, startling a small group of teen girls.

“I do beg your pardon,” Aziraphale said. “But I was wondering if you could tell me—”

“You’re Aziraphale…right?” asked one of the girls, stumbling over his name. “The angel who saved us?”

“Well, I mean. I helped. I certainly didn’t do it al—”

The other girls squealed in chorus, and the one who’d said his name then produced her mobile phone.

“Would you mind terribly taking a selfie with us? My mum will absolutely flip.”

“I, er, um…all right?” Aziraphale said, not at all certain about what a “selfie” entailed.

He soon learned, however, when the girls bunched up around him, holding the phone angled high at arm’s length, then snapping several pictures of him with them.

“Thank you!” the girl squealed again, bouncing in place. Then the knot of girls collapsed in on themselves, wandering off with their backs to the world as they examined and exclaimed over the photo.

“Oh, wait, if you please…”

But the girls had already left.

A businessman passed by, and, a little desperately, Aziraphale reached out to touch his arm.

“I beg your pardon, I just need to know today’s date?”

The businessman gave him a consternated look, as if Aziraphale were a hoodlum attempting to fleece him.

“It’s Tuesday the eighth.”

“Thank you, but I really need the year, dear.”

But the man had already wandered off, grumbling about vagrants.

Finally, Aziraphale came upon a restaurant he was familiar with, specifically, the bakery Crowley had taken him to after their skirmish with the archangels outside Crowley’s flat. It seemed a century ago now, but he prayed it hadn’t been.

When he tried the shop door, it was locked. The sign said OPEN, but upon closer inspection, he realized the lights were off, a few of the windows were broken, and the baked goods had clearly been sitting there for several days. As he turned to leave, however, the barista who had served them last time unlocked the door and poked her head out with a warm smile.

“We’re not quite ready to reopen. But can I help you?” she asked.

“I—yes, sorry to disturb you—I need to know the date, please?”

“It’s Tuesday the eighth, I believe,” she said.

“Thank you, but could I possibly trouble you to tell me the month and the year?”

Her smile faded into a slightly confused expression. “It’s September. 2019.”

“Oh, thank God,” Aziraphale said, hand to his chest. But his relief was short-lived as another alarming thought occurred to him. What if Aziraphale’s sacrifice, or the witches’ spell, or some other metaphysical hiccup had led to Crowley being somehow erased?

Aziraphale thanked the barista and left at once in the direction of his bookshop. He needed to research. He needed the entirety of his Crowley collection, and then some. He needed to figure out where Crowley would disappear to if he were alive and relatively well, and then he needed to miracle himself there at once. Perhaps he should call Anathema. Maybe she would know where Crowley had gone. And if Crowley had simply…been undone…Aziraphale would just have to find some metaphysical way of bringing him back. Either way, he needed books.

His thoughts tossed on a tempest as he walked all the way back to his bookshop in SoHo. He’d have taken the bus or a cab, but neither were running, it appeared. The world hadn’t ended, but it looked like recovery was taking a bit longer this time. In any case, it wasn’t that far, and he wanted a walk in the crisp night air to clear his head. It was getting late, and the darkness of an electric-less London was much deeper than Aziraphale remembered.

When he arrived at the bookshop, he noticed the entrance had been repaired, but he didn’t spare time to examine the details as he snapped open the door and stepped inside. Instead, the second his foot touched the interior flooring, he gasped in shock. Not at what he saw, but at what he _felt_.

Grief…almost unbearable _grief_ borne from a love so intense that it bled from every stone in every wall of the building. Aziraphale sagged against the doorframe, unable to support his own weight as he acclimated to the onslaught of emotion.

After a few deep breaths, he was able to shield himself somewhat and return to his feet.

“Crowley,” he said even more worried now than he had been before. What if…what if Crowley had chosen a different path? What if something truly _dreadful_ had happened?

Aziraphale ventured further into the shop, past the register, into the sitting area, where he noticed a new addition to his decor—a simple houseplant.

He gravitated to the plant like a moth to a flame, hoping for some sign that Crowley was responsible for its presence. He would have given nearly anything in that moment to be able to speak Plant.

He touched one of its leaves with a tentative hand, and then caressed it as he had done in Crowley’s flat.

“Crowley,” he said again, his fingers trembling.

Then the door opened behind him, the bell tinkling to mark its passage. And in walked the love of Aziraphale’s eternal life, carrying that thrice-damned tartan thermos in one hand and a reddish-green apple in the other. He hadn’t seen Aziraphale yet, as he seemed to be thoughtfully considering the apple.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice breaking into pieces.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley choked, freezing in place.

“Yes, I…” The angel’s voice gave out on him entirely then. He tried to move, to go to Crowley, but he had no more control of his limbs than he did his voice.

The demon took a hesitant step in Aziraphale’s direction, spluttering in his usual fashion whenever something surprised him.

“Are—Is it really— Am I dreaming?”

Aziraphale’s thoughts were whirling again, and he could hardly snatch one out of the tumult to answer.

“I-I don’t know, darling. How would I know if you were dreaming? Only…I am pretty sure _I’m_ not dreaming, so it would stand to reason—”

Crowley cried out, not a word exactly, more a cry of pain. He crumpled to his knees, dropping both thermos and apple as his palms hit the floor to stop his falling completely.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, finally moving to join him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Only you—only you would say something so-so stupid after— Oh, my God. Oh, my God, angel. I nearly—I nearly—”

Aziraphale shook and shone like he was falling apart even as he pulled Crowley into his arms right there on the bookshop floor. For Crowley to invoke God rather than Satan was enough all on its own to cause alarm. But seeing him like this. He was practically hyperventilating.

“I’m here, I’m here, my love,” Aziraphale murmured into Crowley’s hair. “I’m so sorry it took me so long. I’m so sorry I left in the first place. I’m so sorry. I will never again. I swear.”

Aziraphale openly wept for what he’d almost lost. For the pain he’d caused the only person who had ever truly loved him. For the world, for himself, for everything in between.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley. But I’m here. I’m here now.”

Crowley clung to Aziraphale shaking and sobbing, too.

“I love you,” Aziraphale continued. “I came back, because I love you. I had a choice. And I chose you.”

The demon pulled back just enough to rip off his glasses, to take Aziraphale’s face in his hands, to really _look _at him.

“Is it really you? I-I won’t survive if this is— if you leave again. I can’t—”

“It’s me, my dear.”

And to prove it, Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed Crowley’s beautiful lips. Kissed him and kissed him until they were both breathless.

Crowley broke away finally to bury his head in Aziraphale’s shoulder, inhaling deeply.

“You smell like you. You smell exactly like you.”

“Well, I did just change my cologne, remem—”

“Shut _up_,” Crowley said, pulling back again, smiling wide. Then he rested his forehead against Aziraphale’s. “I know what you smell like, idiot.”

“Crowley…Crowley…Crowley,” Aziraphale said, punctuating each repetition with a kiss.

After an indeterminable amount of time, Aziraphale shifted to a more comfortable position, pulling Crowley partially into his lap.

“You silly serpent,” he said fondly, but with a touch of suppressed fear. “What were you doing with that thermos?”

Crowley shuddered at the reminder, and Aziraphale pulled him closer.

“I lost hope. For a few minutes, angel. All right, more than a few. I thought I’d lost you. For real, this time. And—I didn’t save…I couldn’t—”

“Oh, my darling, no. No, no, no, no.”

“But then…” Crowley pulled away just far enough to retrieve the apple. He presented it to Aziraphale as if it were significant somehow. “This apple dropped onto the roof of the Bentley. From nowhere. I was parked on the Westminster Bridge. Nobody for miles. No other cars. Hastur had just brought me th-the holy water and left again. And I was going to…I was going to… But the apple… And I…I…”

Aziraphale took the apple from Crowley and kissed it. Then he set it aside and drew Crowley close again, kissing him. And Crowley kissed him back. For the moment, nothing else mattered.

In the next moment, however, the door to the bookshop slammed open, causing both Aziraphale and Crowley to startle apart.

“Oh!” Anathema said. “I had a dream! I fell asleep on the way home, and I… Oh, Aziraphale!”

Newt poked his head past his girlfriend’s shoulder. “Aziraphale?” he said, showing a few degrees more excitement than his usual prosaic expression, which for him, meant an extreme emotional response.

Aziraphale smiled up at them. “I came b—”

But before he could finish the sentence, Anathema swooped down on him and Crowley, whooping with delight and smelling like a distillery. All three fell into a pile of limbs on the floor.

“I love you guys, _so much_,” she slurred, her eyes open to bare slits. “I _really_ love you guys. _So much._”

“Come on, then,” Newt said, awkwardly, reaching a hand down to help her up. “I think it’s time we get you to bed.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, as boneless as Crowley in his snake form when Newt tried to get her to standing. “But I just want you to know. How much I love you guys.”

Aziraphale stood up and kissed her cheek, bestowing a slight, delayed-onset blessing for a hangover-less morning the following day.

“We’ll call you,” Newt said, as he shepherded Anthema through the door and back to their car.

Crowley, having gotten to his feet as well, wiped his eyes with a thumb, still trembling a little.

“Darling,” Aziraphale said, wrapping his arms around the demon and pressing his head just under Crowley’s chin.

“You are the only one,” Crowley said, whisper-soft against his hair. “You’re the only one, angel.”

And this time, Aziraphale knew exactly what he meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The crossword with a pen bit was inspired by Tori Amos's Happy Phantom. Any kids from the nineties catch that reference?
> 
> Only one chapter left, my friends, and I am quite sad about it. :'-(


	30. Signet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the apocalypse that was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! The happy ending I promised. I hope it’s happy enough for you ineffable nerds. <3

It was a Sunday, they were at Saint James park in the afternoon, ducks all around, and the world wasn’t ending. At least, not that Crowley knew. And though it had been nearly nine months since the last apocalypse, Crowley still noted every single day that didn’t mark an impending end to all things.

“Crowley, dear, would you mind?” Aziraphale said, as he absently handed Crowley a basket full of food. Then he shook out a great tartan blanket he’d had looped over his arm and laid it on the ground. Crowley watched with a stitch in his heart as his fastidious angel picked bits of grass and leaf off the surface, smoothing the fabric with his hands.

Feeling Crowley’s gaze on him, Aziraphale stood and frowned at the demon.

“What?” he said, preemptively tetchy, likely assuming Crowley was judging him.

Crowley returned the basket without answering, but as he brushed past to avail himself of the blanket, he pinched the angel on his arse.

Aziraphale jumped, and then scolded him playfully, “Really, dear. In public?”

Crowley draped himself across the tartan in the most languid and space-consuming way possible.

“Budge over, ruffian,” the angel said, with a suggestive twinkle in his eyes. “They’ll be here any minute.”

Crowley groaned. “Why did you have to invite people? I hate people.”

“You like these people.”

“I doooon’t.”

“You dooooo,” Aziraphale insisted. “Don’t make me regret letting you sleep in this morning.”

Crowley closed his eyes, smiling at the memory. He hadn’t been the only one sleeping in, and sleeping wasn’t, strictly speaking, what they’d been doing.

“That’s better,” Aziraphale continued, the Machiavellian manipulator. Crowley’s demonic ways had apparently been rubbing off on the angel rather too much of late.

Anathema waddled up to them then, an air of disapproval about her.

“This weather is simply too perfect to be natural,” she said. “Do we need to have another discussion about the potential meteorological ramifications of too many miracles?”

“We’re occult-ethereal beings, bicycle-girl,” Crowley said. “We don’t impact the natural order, we _are_ the natural order.”

She snorted at him. “I’ll be sure to have that embroidered on a pillow for you,” she said with just the right amount of sarcasm.

“Let me help you, dear,” Aziraphale said, snapping his fingers to produce an ornate, cushioned armchair to match the tartan blanket. Then he took her hand and elbow and eased her into the chair, as if she were a queen. Crowley moved only to stretch his arms up and lace his fingers behind his head.

“I can sit on a blanket, Aziraphale, honestly,” she said, though she still winced a little, holding her burgeoning belly as she bent to sit.

“Yes, but could you get up again?” Crowley said.

“Fair point,” Anathema acknowledged as she settled in.

“You’re nearly eight months along, my dear. I will not be responsible for any premature incipience of events.”

“I have enough worry-warts in my life, thank you.”

“Where is Newt, speaking of?” Crowley put in. “Parking that disaster of an automobile, I presume?”

She nodded. “The Them are helping him schlep the sandwiches.”

“Jolly good,” Aziraphale said, beaming. Crowley felt the radiance of that smile in each cell of his body. He was quite certain that every living being within a quarter mile felt it.

Aziraphale and Anathema went about the business of chatting and catching up while Crowley studied the angel. Aziraphale had changed since the apocalypse. He was more powerful…or maybe he just no longer diminished his power to fit in. The angel glowed more often than not of late, and he didn’t bother to hide it, now that the cat was out of the proverbial bag regarding the existence of angels and demons. And more than that, he just seemed to have broken the emotional shackles that Heaven had always placed on him. He was more at peace with himself and the world than Crowley had ever seen him, which in turn, made Crowley more at peace. As long as Aziraphale was content, then Crowley could put up with a Hell of a lot.

And put up with a Hell of a lot, he did. Crowley wasn’t thrilled with Aziraphale’s new job as Head Principality, Steward of Heaven, Guardian of New Earth. In other words, lead bastard in charge of literally everything. And, bonus, the promotion came with a new job for Crowley as well: Demon Liaison, Counselor to the Steward of Heaven, Guardian of the Head Principality’s Bedchamber. All right, he’d added the last bit himself, but still. It was a really lot to manage. Way more actual work involved than slacking off and sending dishonest memos about his exaggerated exploits to Hell every now and again. But he couldn’t deny the new status quo came with certain perks. Not having to lurk in the shadows being one.

Aziraphale’s laugh drifted over the warm breeze to his ears, and he smiled. Yeah, a demon could get used to domestication, believe it or not. Would wonders never cease?

After a few minutes, Newt and the Them joined the party, upping the decibel level by a factor of ten. For their part, the Them gleefully dog-piled on Crowley like the pack of miscreants they were, in a combined tackle so fearsome that he couldn’t say whether they’d broken one of his ribs.

“All right, all right! Off, you mongrels!” Crowley snarled, hurling their small bodies to the blanket.

“We’ve been working on our front-on crash, like you taught us,” Wensleydale said, after he’d caught his breath and straightened his glasses.

Aziraphale tutted. “Well, you aren’t meant to tackle when your opponent is already down.”

“That’s not what Coach said,” Brian protested. “Is it, Coach?”

Crowley sat up, rubbing his midsection. “What have I told you blighters a thousand times?”

Pepper rolled her eyes as she recited, “Angels are like referees: whatever they don’t know about is fair game.”

“Which means?”

“Don’t let them know about it,” the gang chorused.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, in a tone that meant Crowley was absolutely going to get it later, and damned if that idea didn’t excite Crowley more than it should.

“So we aren’t supposed to tackle ‘em when they’re down?” Brian asked, scratching his head.

Adam bent to pull a rugby ball out from his daypack. “Come on, you lot. Let’s go practice while the grownups are dull and talk at each other.” Then he winked at Crowley and took off, Dog close on his heels. The other vermin followed, leaving Aziraphale and Anathema to prattle on as Newt assembled their repast.

Within half an hour, everyone was devouring sandwiches, stealing bits of this and that from each other, laughing, and, as far as Crowley could tell, having a relatively decent time of it. Even Crowley found his mood improving, despite having to spend his entire day off with people other than Aziraphale.

Newt called a halt to the festivities a few hours later when he noticed Anathema nodding off in her armchair. Packing took much less time than unpacking, so the humans were tottering away again in a handful of minutes, leaving a pleasant melancholy absence in Crowley’s heart as they did.

Aziraphale slid closer to Crowley as Crowley watched them go.

“They love you, too, you know,” Aziraphale said, apropos of nothing.

“As an outgrowth of their affection for you, you mean?”

“No, I mean…” Aziraphale interlaced his fingers with Crowley’s. “They love you in addition to me loving you. Independently of me loving you and them loving me. I’m saying, you have a family.”

Crowley couldn’t help but smile at that, biting his lip to try and tamp it down. He shouldn’t be happy about that. He shouldn’t be happy at all. He was a demon. He didn’t need or want a family.

As if reading his mind, the angel shook his head in disbelief.

“You really are a pill sometimes,” he said.

Before Crowley could answer this with a crude suggestion about Aziraphale swallowing him, they were accosted by another visitor.

“Principality Aziraphale,” Raph said, as he landed next to them, already tucking his wings out of sight.

While humans now knew about angels and demons and were somewhat used to seeing winged people floating around, they were still quite enamored by the idea of occult-ethereal beings, often treating them as if they were human celebrities. Thus, keeping a low profile seemed to remain in most immortals’ best interest, miracles and the occasional flight notwithstanding.

“Raph,” Aziraphale said with a smile, getting to his feet and brushing off a few imaginary specks of misplaced nature. “I believe I told you to drop the formalities when not in the office.”

“Sorry, Aziraphale. Just habit now, I guess. Crowley,” he said, turning to give the demon a perfunctory nod.

“Raph,” Crowley growled back.

As Heaven’s new Chief Administrative Officer, Raph oversaw the logistical, day-to-day details of running Heaven. As a direct result, the overwhelmingly ineffective bureaucracy had been whittled down to a much more modern, agile, compassionate approach to organizing information and delegating duties. If Aziraphale was the leader of all Heaven, establishing mission statements, values, and goals, then Raph was the director of operations, collecting data, correcting direction, and divvying up the labour amongst departments. It was exhausting work for both of them, but Crowley couldn’t argue with the results. And so he’d used his own power, both official and preternatural, to influence Hell along similar lines.

“I have some paperwork I need you to sign,” Raph continued, popping a small sheaf of papers out of the ether and into his hand. “Sorry to bother you on your day off.”

“No need for apologies,” Aziraphale said, taking the papers and scanning through them quickly. “You are also working on your day of rest, so it is only fair that I do my part.” Apparently satisfied with whatever it was, Aziraphale applied his thumb to the righthand margin of the first page and pressed, affixing his seal to the document. Then he handed the papers back to Raph. “Here you are, dear boy. Now, please, for me, actually _leave_ the office and have a lovely remainder of your Sunday.”

Raph smiled, a slight tightness to his features that Crowley recognized all too well. Aziraphale had told Crowley about Raph’s confession during the apocalypse. But even if he hadn’t, Crowley had known the moment Raph had set foot in Saint James park that day that the archangel was in love with Aziraphale, and not just because it was impossible not to be.

What was more surprising was that most of humanity had picked up on Raph’s feelings as well.

During the Battle of the Eye, as it had come to be called, witnesses had seen from a distance the moment that Aziraphale had stood up to the angel wielding the Holy Lance. They’d misinterpreted the entire exchange, of course, having not heard the words spoken, nor known the context behind the actions they saw.

Historians were already documenting the event, however, with their analyses and learned commentaries. And the conclusions they were drawing were, strangely, both wildly inaccurate and startlingly on point.

One of the most popular of these accounts—written by one Thaddea Halpern, PhD, dean of the newly founded Metaphysical Religious Studies department at Oxford—proposed that Aziraphale, being God’s Disciple, had known in that moment that nothing could harm him, and had bravely stood his ground, armored in faith alone. God had answered his faith by sending Her servant, Archangel Raphael, to strike down the angel holding the Lance before he could slay Her Disciple. Then Raphael, still in service to the Almighty, had retrieved the fallen Lance and presented it to Aziraphale on bended knee, signifying his undying devotion to Aziraphale, as well as affirming Aziraphale’s eminence as Chosen By God.

Online metaphysical fandom circles had turned positively giddy over this interpretation, causing the Aziraphale/Raphael stans to compose dissertation-length RPFs and meta posts on Tumblr, pointing out all the obvious hallmarks of Raphael’s chivalrous pining. Which, to be honest, had dealt a particular blow to Crowley’s pride, as he had invented both Tumblr and slash fic during his more villainous days, and he felt bruised at them having been turned so wholly toward his rival.

Aziraphale had responded to the publication of Halpern’s account with a derisive scoff and a, “Good Lord, what will they think of next?” While Crowley had downloaded the article, and a few of the RPFs, to his mobile out of sheer perversity, though more toward himself than Aziraphale. He knew the truth, and this description of it was, unfortunately, by far the closest.

“I still have a few things to wrap up before the new quarter begins,” Raph said. “But then I will, I promise.”

“Can it really not wait?” Aziraphale protested. “It’s not as if the world will end.”

Raph chuckled, his smile transforming from pained to more genuine.

“I wouldn’t test it,” he said.

Aziraphale hesitated, a shadow entering his expression. “And Gabriel?”

Raph’s smile faded as well, though he hid it better.

“Gabriel is Gabriel,” Raph said. “He’s adjusting to his new duties, but the bitterness runs deep. I’m not sure your plan will work.”

“We have to try,” Aziraphale said. “I’m open to amending his assignment, if you’ve thought of something more fitting.”

“No, no,” Raph said. “You’re right that he needs to develop empathy. I’m just not sure he’ll let it happen, no matter where he’s stationed.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll find out,” Aziraphale said with a hopeful smile. “If ministering to ill children in developing countries can’t teach him empathy, then nothing can.”

“I’ll keep checking on him,” Raph said. “I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

Aziraphale nods at this, then makes a shooing motion at Raph. “Now, off with you, sir. Go and have a drink or two on me.”

Raph bowed, as he always did before leaving Aziraphale’s presence, and popped out of Saint James park, leaving a bright afterimage behind him.

“I really wish he wouldn’t do that,” Aziraphale said wistfully.

“What? Teleport?”

“Bow. It makes me feel old.”

“Well, you are old, angel.”

Aziraphale shot him a disgruntled look.

“Well, you are,” Crowley insisted. “He’s just showing you proper deference.”

“But we’re friends.”

Crowley didn’t point out that Raph was clearly using formality to put distance between them for his own self-preservation. To Crowley it was obvious, because he’d done a variation of the same himself so often. His had been sarcasm rather than formality, but it amounted to the same thing. There was something he did need to say, however. And it was time he stopped putting it off.

“He still loves you, you know,” Crowley said, standing up to join the angel.

Aziraphale blushed. “He knows I don’t feel the same way.”

“Maybe you should,” Crowley said, looking at the ground rather than Aziraphale.

“What?”

Crowley knew he needed to the say the next part. Should have said it when Aziraphale first told him about Raph’s confession. But Crowley had been too much of a coward at the time, afraid that Aziraphale would see his point and agree. Come to that, he was still fucking terrified. But if he never suggested it to Aziraphale, the angel would never even consider it, and it needed to be considered.

“He’s an angel. Of Heaven.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Don’t pretend to be stupid, Aziraphale. It’s not a good look on you.”

“I assure you, I have no idea—“

“You are clever enough to know that _I_ know how much and for how long you wished for some sign of warmth from your own people. Raph offers you that and more.”

“But I’m in love with you,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley felt that old stirring of treacherous hope, though it only made this harder for him. He loved his angel enough to lose him to someone else’s happiness, if losing him was necessary.

“Are you? Or was I merely your only opportunity for love? Your first love but not your true one?”

“Why are you saying this?”

“Think about it. He is _like you_. He understands your history, has the same powers, the same divine essence, the same love of God.”

“Crowley, I don’t want Heaven. I want you.”

“But—“

“Stop. Just stop.” Aziraphale pressed his fingers to Crowley’s lips. “I am not staying with you because I am stupidly loyal and think I owe you something. I mean, I am stupidly loyal, and I do owe you a lot, but that’s not what this is, what we are. My heart is yours, dearest. Always has been. Always will be. It’s as simple as that.”

“Even if you might be happier—?”

“If I were any happier, I would burst. And I’m quite content with this corporation—and my new coat—so I’d be rather put out about it, you know, ruining all that happiness in any case.”

Crowley wanted to believe him, but what if the temptation to believe was obscuring the truth? What if it still wasn’t real?

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and pulled him close—confident, demanding, very un-Aziraphale-like.

“Do you remember what you said to me the night before the end?” he asked, his voice low and earnest.

“That you deserved better than me?”

“Not that,” Aziraphale said, exasperated. “You said I was stuck with you.”

Crowley shook his head. “Well, you’re not—you know— You’re not stuck with me. I-if you…” Crowley swallowed hard. “If you want something…else.”

Aziraphale arched an eyebrow at him. “Regardless of whether I am stuck with you, darling, you are most definitely stuck with me. So you might as well get used to the idea. Though, honestly, Crowley, what you thought we were doing these last months besides falling ludicrously in love with each other is beyond me.”

“Ludicrously—?”

Then, in front of every human in Saint James park and all their mobile devices besides, Aziraphale, Head Principality, in charge of all Heaven, Guardian of all earth, certified worldwide celebrity and savior of all existence, caught Crowley’s face in his hands and snogged him thoroughly senseless.

“Marry me,” Aziraphale said, when they finally broke apart. “Marry me tonight. Just us and the whole world.”

Then he slid the golden-winged ring off his own finger and onto Crowley’s.

“I-I—you—ng-uh—huh?” Crowley spluttered, his entire brain short-circuiting.

“I’m making an honest demon out of you,” the angel continued.

And Crowley couldn’t well argue with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, but, guys. I loved writing this thing sooo much. And you. All of you who sauntered along with me on this adventure, you totally rock. I appreciate you just _reading_ all the way up to this point, let alone giving kudos and writing comments. Ugh, I just heart you guys.
> 
> For anyone who’s interested, I would LOVE to see you on tumblr or discord or pillowfort or amino or wherever. Most places, I’m miraworos. And I love asks or messages or what have you, so feel free to ping me!
> 
> Also, any of you artists/podfic-makers/translators/playlist-compilers/writers/etc. who happen to be inspired by my humble, little story, have at it! Consider this blanket permission to create what you wish. Although, I’d love a comment with a link to your masterpiece, so I can gush all over it.
> 
> And finally, I’ve signed up for not one but TWO ineffable holiday fic fests this season, so watch this space for more Good Omens goodness in the next month or so.
> 
> Until next time, my friends…
> 
> To the world,
> 
> M.W.


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